


don't look much like a lover (doesn't mean I won't try)

by SummerFrost



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Season/Series 06, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barebacking, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Co-Parenting, Cunnilingus, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Shenanigans, Everybody Lives, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pegging, Post-Season/Series 05 Fix-It, Secret Relationship, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Soulless Spike, Suicidal Ideation, Trauma, Weddings, might be more accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 86,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29704881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummerFrost/pseuds/SummerFrost
Summary: Buffy is ashamed of him, Spike knows. But when no one else is around, she touches him like she could love him.(In which Spike makes a damn good cup of coffee, watches a sunrise or two, and plays confidant to a Slayer who thinks dying to save the world would've been easier than this.)
Relationships: Anya Jenkins & Spike, Anya Jenkins & Tara Maclay, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Spike & Dawn Summers, Spike/Buffy Summers, Tara Maclay & Spike
Comments: 140
Kudos: 178





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, you know, this is what happens when you've loved a show for 20+ years but only joined the fandom for it three months ago, I guess! Seasons 5 + 6 are actually my two favorites of the series, so while on one level this is a "fix-it," it's also sort of in affectionate conversation with them both, especially in terms of theme. But to be clear, there's no MCD (although Joyce's death happened as in canon) and no attempted rape.
> 
> SO MUCH LOVE to alittlebitmaybe, who supported me so much while I was writing this, including contributing some lovely ideas, and also beta'd for me and helped me figure out where to put the chapter breaks because they made my brain sad<3 and additional thanks to sleepy-skittles and the #hellsquad, whom I all love and who provided lots of encouragement as well <3
> 
> Title is from Best That I Can by Vance Joy and I'm basically begging you to listen to it

He's thinking about Buffy when he picks up the knife.

Grapples for it, really, when his feet are swept from under him while the tower groans in the wind, not from his weight crashing onto it. The tower doesn't care about him at all, and neither does the demon that's seconds from pitching him over the edge of the tower like so much rubbish.

But Dawn's looking at him like she doesn't want to die, and Spike's thinking about Buffy with half a knife blade sunk into his palm.

He knocks his full weight back and buries the other half in Doc's gut.

It's not nearly enough to kill him—Spike's not sure what fucking will be—but the shock of it sends them both crumpling to the floor. The blade slips through Spike's palm and slices all the way up his forearm like he's tried to off himself instead of—well, whatever you'd call this fucking suicide mission, and he loses his grip on it when he rolls over in a scramble to pin Doc down.

They grapple—it occurs to Spike he could take them both over the edge, but he thinks the knife severed a tendon and he can't trust his grip. 

A blow to the head—two—something cutting against his hamstring, a sharp tongue slicing his cheek.

Is it time? It has to have been enough bloody time.

Spike gets the knife back in his stomach—it happens jerkily, because Doc is in death throes halfway through the stabbing. At least for now. For long enough. Spike shoves the corpse off the tower with his good hand—relative, he doesn't like the angle of that wrist—and then looks down at himself. 

Entire right arm dripping with blood under his duster, an improbable amount oozing from the wound in his abdomen. Spike doesn't need his organs to not-live, but he likes them where they are, so that's not grand. He wrenches the knife out and lets it clatter to the ground with a hiss.

"Spike?" Dawn shouts over the howling wind.

Fuck. Work to be done, promises to be kept. Spike picks up the knife again and staggers to his feet. He limps towards her, slow-going and dizzily avoiding the unpleasant prospect of joining Doc on the ground below. 

"It's okay, nibblet," he says, and cuts his lip on a fang he didn't realize was out. "I've got—" he braces himself against the metal apparatus she's tied to. "You."

Dawn's face is streaked with tears. Her voice warbles when she asks, "Are you dying?"

Spike starts hewing at the ropes binding her wrists. His mouth changes shape. "Ev'ry day for the last century and a half, pet."

He pauses for dramatic effect; he's earned it.

"But no more today than usual."

One arm free. Dawn holds it protectively against her middle, wincing, and says, "You saved me."

"No counting eggs, now," Spike warns. 

Dawn throws herself into his arms when he frees her. It hurts, the weight of her against the gaping hole in his middle, and he almost can't bear it but he does anyway. He hates the sensation, though—of the blood seeping.

When she pulls away, there's a crimson stain all along her middle, and some along her throat where his hand had brushed on the way to her hair.

Spike blinks dizzily and says, "Ruined your pretty dress."

"Glory made me wear it," she answers, like she's about to spit.

He wishes she would; she's earned it.

"Let's get you down from here," he says. Or, more accurately: _help me get down from here._

"Jumping would be fastest," she says.

God fucking bless the Summers women.

(Not that He'd do it at Spike's request).

Dawn wraps her arm around his waist and starts dragging him towards the scaffolding, doing her level best to take the weight off his bad leg. He can make it move anyway, obviously—can make his dead body do a lot of things it shouldn't—but there's a sodding lot of pain.

There's the sound of familiar footsteps, sprinting, and then Buffy's up on the tower with them.

The first thing her eyes land on is Dawn's blood-soaked dress.

"No," she says. "No, no—" desperate. "It's gonna be okay, Dawnie." She rushes forward, almost shoves Spike right off the tower, takes Dawn's hands in her own. "It's—it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna fix it—I—I—can fix it."

"Buffy," Dawn tells her, bewildered. "I'm fine. Spike—"

The wind picks up in a sudden howl, rocking the tower with force. The whole structure sways with it like a creature under thrall.

Dawn yelps and stumbles; Buffy catches her and Spike falls forward, landing a heavy hand on her shoulder. He thinks for a moment they might look like a family—all huddled together and clutching at one another, but it's only his blood dripping to the floor.

"It's gonna be okay," Buffy whispers.

Dawn sobs. Her shoulders wrack, shaking off Spike's hand, and she sobs and sobs and says, "I was so scared."

"Don't be scared," Buffy soothes, and there's—there's something. "It's not your fault, okay? It's not your fault. I'm gonna fix it."

"Fix it?" Dawn asks wetly. "Buffy—"

When Buffy pulls away, curled knuckles brushing the hair from Dawn's face, there are tears in her eyes. She smiles wrong, like it's inside out, like all Spike's insides pouring out, and all three of them have the same wind howling different horrors in their ears.

"It's okay," Buffy promises, smiling with her throat quivering. "Listen to me, okay? There's not a lot of time before it starts."

"Buffy, what're you talking about?" Dawn begs.

The tower sways again—groaning bones. Spike feels the realization shudder up his spine.

Dawn says, "Buffy, it's not starting!"

"Dawnie," Buffy tells her gently, fingers hovering above the stain. "You've lost a lot of blood, you're confused—but I love you, okay? Just remember—"

"Slayer—" Spike tries.

Buffy turns to him. "You're the one who said it, right? It's gotta be blood."

"I'm not bleeding!" Dawn begs. "Buffy, listen, I'm not bleeding! You don't have to—"

"I do, Dawnie. I have to."

Buffy kisses her on the forehead and she thrashes, grabbing at Buffy's shirt and shrieking—Buffy pushes her against Spike's chest and runs for the edge of the tower.

"Buffy, stop!" Spike stabilizes Dawn and stumbles after Buffy—he grabs at her, smears a bloody handprint onto her beautiful white jumper, tries again and gets a grip that sticks with the pain shooting up his split veins. "Fucking listen for—"

"If you really love me," she says, and God help him, God help this dying tower and everything touching it, she sounds like she wants him to. "You won't try to stop me."

He's been trying to prove it for so very long.

He pulls her back, gets his other hand on her too.

"It's my blood, Buff," he pleads. Covering her in it—her hair, her face when he takes it in his hands. "It's all my blood. She didn't spill a drop of it—I promised you. I kept it."

Buffy stares at him, wide-eyed, caught on the edge of believing.

Dawn says, "He's telling the truth, Buffy, I swear."

Another good sway of the tower and Spike's leg gives out; his knees hit the metal and there's crimson all down Buffy's front, him clutching at her in supplication. 

Buffy's eyes trace over him like she's seeing for the first time—the slow drip of blood down his arm, partially hidden under his duster, the mess that's been made of his stomach.

"It's over?" she asks.

"Well and bloody finished," Spike promises. It occurs to him his vision's gone dim. "A little help, maybe, if you're still in the business of it?"

It's Dawn that grabs him first, but then Buffy's hauling him to his feet with all that blessed strength of hers and dragging him to the stairs. The adrenaline drops off as soon as her hands are on him, leaving him with nothing but the pain. He'd probably be easier to move if he passed out—all limbs, getting in the way—but he can't figure out how to do it.

By the time they get to the bottom, Spike held up between the two women, the others have congregated—all a little worse for the wear but alive and looking a sight better than he must.

Good. That'll make Buffy happy.

"Oh my God, Buffy!" Willow says, putting the hand not holding up Tara to her mouth. "Are you guys okay?"

"It's Spike's blood," Buffy answers.

"Then everyone's alright?" Giles asks. "You managed to stop—"

"Yeah," Buffy says. "Let's go home."

Spike's leg buckles again, the world tipping around him, but he doesn't hit the ground. Buffy, then—his temple on the point of her shoulder, view of the Scoobies turned tilted and bleary with pain.

"Right," he slurs, "mind… giving a bloke… a lift?"

Someone must take him literally, because his feet aren't touching the ground anymore and, oh, that's how you pass out.

~*~

"I guess you were right," Buffy says quietly, looking down at him. She's got these bloodstains on her cheeks and the rest of him draped all over her arms, carrying him home. "That night at the Bronze."

Spike's eyes flutter shut.

~*~

"Here," Buffy tells him—later, he thinks. He's upright, for one, staring at the Summers' kitchen island and getting blood all over the counter. Also, he's shirtless. "Drink."

Spike blinks, finishes coming to, and stares blankly at the deli container of pig's blood she's holding in one hand. The other is helping brace his back, which explains his ability to stay sitting.

"Where's—" he mutters, then tries again. "How long was I out? Where'd you get that?"

"Not long," says Buffy. "Xander drove over to your crypt."

Spike eyes the blood suspiciously. "Did he piss in it?"

Buffy frowns thoughtfully. "Smell it?"

He gives it a whiff. 

"Thanks," he says, and almost drops the sodding thing when he tries to grab it, wincing in pain. "Oh, bugger."

Buffy snorts. "Baby."

"Bugger you, too." Spike grabs the container gingerly. "Can't someone with better bedside play nursemaid?"

Buffy unzips a first aid kit on the counter that proudly declares itself 'deluxe.' She says, "I told them all to go to bed."

Spike pauses in guzzling down his blood. "Here?"

"Yeah, upstairs." Buffy pulls out a needle and surgical thread, which Spike does not think come standard in a layperson's first aid kit, _deluxe_ status be damned. "Except Giles." Her brow furrows. "He wasn't feeling the love."

She jabs the needle into him without warning and tugs it through.

 _"Ow!"_ Spike complains, flinching away. "Offered him your low-cost medical treatment, did you?"

Buffy glares at him—which is concerning, because she doesn't stop stitching him up while she does it.

"I don't even need stitches," Spike protests, trying half-heartedly to wriggle away. "Vampire, remember? Accelerated healing?"

"You're bleeding all over the furniture," Buffy argues.

"Well, you could've dropped me at the—bloody hell, woman! At the crypt, then."

Buffy finally stops short, like it hadn't occurred to her.

Spike would be pleased by that—and who is he kidding, he still is—but his dominant emotion is the stabbing pain in his stomach that reminds him of all the other stabbing pains.

"Anyway," Buffy says, and sews another uneven stitch across the wound, "I guess I should thank you."

"You can thank me by letting me do my own bloody stitches," Spike jokes. "No offense, love, but you're better at making these than closing 'em up."

Buffy flinches away from him, dropping the needle. She looks like he struck her—so much so that he flinches too, half-expecting the pain to burst in his skull.

But there's nothing.

"What?" Spike asks, trying to prod for the tension. "You weren't thinking med school, were you?"

"No, I—" Buffy is staring through him, like she was back up on that tower. "You just reminded me of… something someone said."

Spike'd fucking stake himself if it meant her never making that face again.

He picks up the needle and holds it out for her, raising an eyebrow in invitation.

She takes it, twirling it wistfully between her fingers for a long moment.

"It's just a skill," Spike says, maybe too gently. "Same as anything else you've learned. Fallen out of fashion, really—don't wanna put docs out of business, do we?"

She smiles weakly, like she's humoring him, but she never does that—and then she goes right back to the pain and suffering, which is more familiar.

"Why's there's so much blood, anyway?" she asks, all pouty about it, like he's ruining the cheap vinyl counters on purpose. "Vamp blood's supposed to be all oozy."

"Yeah, well, bastard got me good," Spike says with a wince. At least her hand's getting steadier. "He was _yea_ tall—"

"No he wasn't!"

"—had these horns the size of my arm—"

"Shut _up."_

"Okay, maybe your arm."

Buffy narrows her eyes at him. "Dawn said he was a little old man with a grody tongue."

"Well, I'm not saying the little bit's a liar, but…" Spike shrugs, which aggravates his stab wound. "Ah, fuck."

"See, there's the oozing." Buffy pokes at the non-sewed up half, then scrunches up her face in disgust. "Eugh, is that—"

"Cut clean open?" Spike supplies helpfully. "Like a piñata."

Buffy laughs reflexively and smacks him on the arm. "You're disgusting!"

"I mean, I know there's no confetti—"

Buffy says, "Shut _up,"_ and slaps a hand over his mouth.

Spike goes still. Her skin is warm against his gently parted lips and he wants—god, he wants her palm between his teeth. Not to bleed her, no—just to kiss down her wrist, the soft sheltered veins of her forearm, to coax that hand into his hair where it'll pull, tug, shut him up any way she wants.

He'd do anything for her. She's staring at him like she knows it.

Her hand lowers slowly, fingertips grazing his bottom lip, and his tongue slips out to wet the spot where she's been.

"Was only half-right, you know," Spike says roughly. "At the Bronze."

Buffy is still holding the needle in her other hand.

Spike looks at himself—the half-spilled guts, the butchered stitches—and then, more importantly, looks at her. All aching and listless and haunting her own house in a ruined jumper, stained in his blood like a rejected martyr.

"I'm having a real shit day," he says.

Buffy snorts. Hides it behind a hand again, like she's sorry about it, but there's a smile peeking out at the edges.

"I'm sorry," she says shakily, and laughs again. "You really, really are."

Spike's chest begins to warm. "I mean, look at my _hair._ Actually, don't look at my hair, I'm sure it's terrible. And I chipped my nail polish—I just did these, you know."

"And those stitches are all wrong with your complexion," Buffy sasses, and then dissolves into giggles.

Spike starts laughing too, at first just a snicker because her giggling is contagious, but it bubbles in him. Feels like a punch to the gut every time his abs contract but he can't stop—is looking at that pretty smile of hers that she's hiding behind bloodstained fingers and the spark in her eyes, catching in his.

Buffy drops the needle and hides her face in both hands, elbows framing one of his thighs, gasping for air she's laughing so hard—the kind that hiccups out and turns to wheezing and then to—

A sound like she's choking. Then another like a braying, dying animal, and her shoulders start to contort and quake with something nameless that tastes sour in the air.

The noise dries up in Spike's throat.

Buffy sobs one, two times and slams her fist into the counter so hard Spike's deli container topples off the edge and splatters red across the floor like a bashed skull. She presses her forehead against Spike's thigh and sobs harder when he runs a terrified hand down her spine, trying to soothe.

Spike's told a lot of women they were pretty when they cried. Dru, because it was true—silent tears streaming down her delicate pink-painted cheeks while she saw something lovely no one else could touch. Girls he wanted to kill, because it would be more fun.

Buffy cries ugly. There's snot and tears mixing with the blood on her face and the contortion of her mouth is something harsh and inconvenient, and Spike still wants to fuck her or worship her or squeeze her until all the bits tumbling out go back in.

The sobbing subsides quicker than it should; he watches her swallow it back down. Her shoulder blades turn sharp again and she stands up straight, shrugging off his hand.

Spike purses his lips, trying to find the words.

She's boring into him, her eyes gone flat and hateful—like he fooled her, somehow. Like this was all his next big plan to kill her and like she's humiliated that he caught her out at being a girl.

Spike clears his throat. Says, "Buffy."

She shakes her head minutely, her jaw clenched.

Spike reaches for her tentatively, folding his fingers as well as he can to squeeze her upper arm, begging her to understand, because he thinks it'd kill him if he had to say it plain. 

_I'd be dust if I lost you. Death isn't beautiful when it's yours._

She glances at the ceiling, steadying herself, and shrugs him off.

He drops his hand.

"We put plastic over the couch," Buffy says flatly. "You can sleep there."

Like he's a dog that'll shed all over the upholstery. 

"Yeah," he answers. "Alright."

Buffy turns away, heading for the stairs. He watches her go, stomach half-sutured, until she hesitates in the doorway with her fingertips touching at the frame.

Buffy says, "Don't forget to close the curtains."

~*~

Spike finishes his own stitches.

~*~

It's the smell of bleach that wakes him up.

Spike presses his teeth into his tongue, sitting up with the plastic crinkling underneath him, and then blinks blearily when he realizes it's still pitch black in here besides a faint, artificial light leaking in from behind him. 

He forgot to close the curtains.

There's a shirt laid out on the coffee table that must be for him; it smells like the Slayer's ex-boy toy, though it's been washed. 

Someone sniffles in the kitchen.

Spike pulls the shirt on, wincing when it tugs on his stitches. His insides are starting to itch with healing and he's got some grip back in both hands, but he should probably get another pint of blood in himself soon.

Buffy is scrubbing bloodstains out of the countertops.

She's in new clothes—or, more accurately, old ones that still smell like Joyce, too big and covered in at least three shades of paint—and her hair is tied back with a bandana. She must hear Spike when he walks in, but she doesn't look up.

"Buff?" he ventures. Leans his temple against the doorframe. "You know what time it is?"

Buffy wrings bloody water out into the sink and dunks her sponge in the bleach bucket. "The blood used to be gone when I'd wake up."

Spike says nothing.

"I mean, I knew it was Mom doing it," she continues, on the edge of a laugh. "Someone had to buy new lamps and change the doo-hickey on the sofa when it got messed up."

"Pretty sure she didn't get up before sunrise to do it," Spike tells her.

Buffy stares vacantly at the counter; her hand is turning red and chapped from the chemicals. "So much died with her."

Spike's body aches. His eyes fall to the pool of blood on the tile, the smears of it where it's been tracked and dripped all over the floor. If he concentrates, he can hear the bodies breathing in their beds upstairs.

"You got a mop?" he asks.

Buffy goes back to scrubbing. "In the basement."

It's one of those nice onces, with the built-in bucket and shit.

Spike brings it up. Buffy dumps half her bleach-water into it; she doesn't thank him, but she hands him two full paper towels when some of it splashes on his bare feet.

"Where're my shoes?" Spike asks, blinking.

"Dirty," she says.

Spike sets to mopping. He thinks, as soon as he starts, that it probably would've been better to soak up the excess blood with towels or something first, because it's all just smearing around on the floor instead of getting soaked up or whatever—but Buffy's not paying any attention to him and he figures it's damn well better than nothing.

Buffy sniffles again—probably from the chemical smell, or she was crying more before he woke up.

Spike dunks the mop back in the water and says, "Mum was the only one who liked my poems."

It's too early in the morning to worry about his pride, and besides—he'd take worse on the chin to give her something to hit.

Instead she asks, "Did she die while you were alive?"

Spike says, "Yeah," and it doesn't feel like a lie.

Buffy wrings the sponge out in the sink and says, "I'm sorry."

There's no answer to that he can stomach, so he just adds another helping of bleach to the mess on the floor.

~*~

They finish cleaning in silence; there's still a faint red stain on the tile if you know where to look, but Buffy doesn't even glance down and it's a sight better than when Spike started, at least. 

The counters look pretty good.

Buffy pours the blood-bleach-water down the drain and then turns on the tap. Over the sound of it, she asks, "What now?"

Spike can smell the sun coming up; there's the faintest hint of light creeping through the blinds on the kitchen door. 

"Plenty of time for a kip," he suggests, tuning into the ongoing snoozefest upstairs. "Don't think the cavalry's gonna be storming any castles in the near future."

"What the fuck is a kip?" asks Buffy.

 _"Sleep,_ Buffy," Spike tells her.

She turns to him with flat eyes and bags underneath them. "I'm not tired."

Spike is—tired and hungry and aching in most of his body.

Buffy still has blood in her hair.

"This place is north-facing, innit?" he asks. "Maybe northwest."

Buffy looks at him blankly. "I guess?"

Spike kicks the mop bucket out from under his feet and says, "Think I could survive a sunrise, from the porch."

Buffy glances towards the windows with detached curiosity, like she's just now putting together that it's nearly six in the morning but can't get herself all the way to feeling shocked.

"Spraying you down with the hose would be kinda fun if not," she says casually, and walks out the back door with a shrug.

Spike defers having a reaction to that. He relocates Buffy's bucket and sponge next to the mop and then puts on a pot of coffee before he joins her, tapping his fingers on the counter while the old thing sputters to life.

Two mugs of dark roast later, one of which burns the side of his palm when he has to juggle it to open the front door, he finds her stretched out in an Adirondack chair she brought around from the rear deck, gazing out over the neighborhood.

Spike hands her a mug and then drags another chair over, kicking his bare feet up on the cheerfully-painted wood.

Buffy takes a sip of her coffee, scrunches up her face, and pouts, "No sugar?"

Spike snorts in exaggerated expense and reaches over to take the mug back. "Well, how am I supposed to know how you take it, love?"

"No, it's fine," Buffy protests, tugging back against his grip. "Sit down."

"No, no, gotta give the lady what she wants," Spike insists loftily. "I'm your humble servant, your—"

Buffy kicks out at his bad knee, the vindictive little bint, and commands, _"Sit."_

Spike sits, rendered temporarily speechless by something else he wonders how she'd take.

Buffy's got both her hands wrapped around the steaming coffee, the kitschy bandana in her hair slipping a little askew. She takes another determined sip of her coffee and squeezes her eyes shut and sticks her tongue out halfway, and then drinks again.

She's the most incredible person Spike's ever met. There's no part of him that deserves it.

He asks, "Do you wanna talk about—"

"No," she says.

"But I'm here if—"

"No."

Spike drinks his coffee; he likes it black and strong—better for his vamp tastebuds that way. All the other houses on the street are dark with sleep; the only way he can see Buffy at all is from the light seeping through their own windows and the sun's creeping tendrils across the horizon. 

His vision's better than a human's even like this, but not so good as with his demon showing.

Still though, he wonders again—what kind of picture they paint. If a fellow insomniac neighbor happened to take an early morning stroll, would they think he's a man? Would they think she loved him back, matching mugs and clashing everything else, waiting patiently for dawn?

Spike doesn't even want to look like he fits. He could do a decent job of it if he did—wear different skin. But there's been this feeling, lately, like it's his insides that're molting. Stab wound notwithstanding. Like she plunged her hand in and mucked him all up and, god, it makes him wanna kill her. 

Makes him choke on all the teeth in his mouth.

He's pretty sure he wouldn't have the stomach for it anymore, but it's familiar at least.

An ambitious bird starts warbling from the big tree Spike likes to smoke against. A craving niggles at the back of his throat—he's pretty sure he's still got half a pack in his duster, if it didn't get hacked to bits or crushed (or both) in the fight.

"Right," Spike says, slapping his hands on his knees before he stands. "Permission to rise, mistress?"

Buffy glares at him out of the corner of her eye, unimpressed.

Spike holds his hand out for the mug. "Since I'm up anyway?"

That earns him an eye roll, but she does hand the mug over. Spike smirks triumphantly and heads for the door—before pausing with it half open.

"Where's my duster?" he asks.

Buffy makes a _what's that gotta do with my coffee?_ face at him. "On the banister. It's pretty torn up."

Spike shrugs; he'll patch it like he always does. He doesn't put it on, though—just rescues the cigs and his lighter and moves into the kitchen. It still smells like bleach and faintly of blood, but also the coffee being kept warm on the hot plate. Not a winning combination.

There's a little bowl of sugar in the shape of a pig with unsettlingly soulful eyes. Spike stares at the sugar cubes, then at the coffee, which is lukewarm and inscrutable, in terms of how much sugar belongs inside. He should've asked, but now he's here and going back outside again would be admitting defeat.

Should he guess? Joyce took two sugars and a splash of milk and Dawn's only allowed those sugary frozen buggers from Starbucks that don't even have coffee in them, but Buffy is, as in most things, fundamentally unknowable.

But probably four sugars, if he had to guess.

Spike tops off the mug from the pot, stuffs his cigarettes and lighter into his jeans pocket, and carries the ceramic pig and a metal spoon with him outside—just in case.

Buffy raises her eyebrows at him when he puts it all down on her armrest. He can picture her lifting a pair of sunglasses—hot pink, probably—off the bridge of her nose, even though he's never seen her wearing any. 

"Can't do everything for you," he argues, plopping down in his chair and muffling the rest of his sentence with the butt of a cigarette. "You'll get all spoiled-like."

"Yeah," Buffy says drily, and dumps four sugar cubes into her coffee. "I've got it real good over here."

Spike lights up with a half-shrug, casting his eyes back over the horizon to hide the pleasure in his smirk.

The sky's starting to get a little real color to it at the edge; if he concentrates, he can still make out a star or two up high. It's a cliche thing, waxing poetic about the sunrise—and it makes the back of his neck prickle.

"Don't see too many of these," Spike says, gesturing broadly with his cigarette after taking a good drag. "Gotta say, though, I like dusk better—don't tell Dawn."

Buffy rolls her eyes, all, _like I've never heard that one before,_ but also like she almost finds it funny anyway.

"This is like an extreme sport for you," she observes. "Like, skydiving for vamps."

"What can I say, baby?" Spike drawls, taking another drag for effect. "I live for the danger."

And the garden hose is within arm's reach.

"Question," says Buffy. She tilts her head. "You know how when people fall from high up enough their heads go 'boom?'"

"It's more of a _splat,"_ Spike says. "Or, like—how'd you call an egg?"

"Like a 'crack' and a 'squelch?'"

Spike leans towards her, an elbow resting on the near armrest. "Yeah, yeah—but less mess than an egg."

Buffy wrinkles her nose, looking more disappointed than disgusted. "Nevermind."

"No, what?" Spike asks.

"It doesn't work," she answers dismissively.

 _"What_ doesn't work?" Spike wheedles. "C'mon, Slayer, don't leave a man hanging."

Buffy puffs out her cheeks, annoyed with him, and leans back in her chair to take a sip of coffee. "I was just thinking—would a vamp die if they fell from high enough? You know, nature's decapitation—could come in handy."

Spike puts together several things at once.

"Right," he says slowly. "Any particular reason that's on your mind, pet?"

Buffy must really like her four-sugars coffee.

Spike says, "Fall from that height, nothing to hit on the way down? You'd look like you. Maybe a little leaking from the cracks, but a vamp'd make it."

"It feels like we cheated," Buffy says, like she was just waiting for him to stop talking. "Like we weren't all supposed to make it this time."

A robin drops down from a tree into the grass and starts pecking around for breakfast.

"Figured it'd be me," says Spike.

"Figured it'd be me," Buffy echoes.

Spike's cigarette burns low enough to singe his fingers. He flicks it onto the porch and almost crushes it with his bare heel before he remembers.

"I told Giles I wanted to be a Cheeto."

Spike glances at her in confusion.

"They don't expire," she says glumly.

Spike wonders how long ago that was.

She must've looked younger than she does right now.

"You change your mind?" he asks.

Buffy shrugs distantly. "Cheetos don't skydive."

"You did it for the girl," Spike says. "I'd've done the same, but I don't fancy a stroll down the cul-de-sac for the hell of it."

She smiles ruefully. "Just a smoke on the porch?"

"For the lady," Spike points out, tipping his coffee mug in her direction.

It's the wrong thing to say. He sees it while it's still half in his mouth, from the way her eyes lose the little glint he'd managed to put there—but he bashes himself on it anyway.

She doesn't like to be reminded of it, he knows. Even when he's pouring it over her. 

Buffy just faces the sun, though, her face carefully impassive and her hands still warming against the mug he brought her, and silence he can do.

Besides, that damn bird is back to singing.

~*~

"... You wrote _poetry?"_

Spike hastily lights up another cigarette.

~*~

They're still out on the porch by the time the rest of the house starts to wake up, Spike edging his chair further and further back under the awning to chase the retreating shade. He can hear the hubbub from out here, and he's pretty sure that Buffy can too, but she nurses her coffee dregs and makes no move to go inside. 

"Buff, it's—oh." Xander stops short, stepping halfway onto the porch, when he locks eyes with Spike. "You're still here."

"Always happy to disappoint, Harris," Spike says cheerfully.

Xander turns back to Buffy. "Buff, we saved the world! It's morning and I'm makin' _waffles."_

Buffy rolls her eyes and onto her feet, arching her back in a catlike stretch. "Okay, Donkey."

Spike follows them both inside, carefully avoiding the growing reach of the sun, wincing once when he puts his weight down wrong on his bad leg. The kitchen is a bloody circus, all yapping humans and things sizzling on the stove. Spike's pot of coffee has been ravished and a fresh one is brewing in its place.

Xander is apparently playing head chef, assisted by Dawn. There's no actual waffles, which makes Spike suspect he missed an especially idiotic joke, but Dawn hands him a plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs—by all accounts, the American classic.

"Hey, how come Spike gets fed next?" Anya demands. "He doesn't even need to eat!"

Buffy was handed a plate as soon as they walked in; Willow is already eating, leaning against the table, and her girl's not even in the room. Clearly there's some kind of pecking order, and for once Spike isn't at the bottom.

Spike tears into a strip of bacon with his blunt, human teeth and says, "Thanks, nibblet."

Dawn smiles at him.

All this human is starting to make Spike's skin itch, though, and besides—Dawn gets whisked back to cooking duty and Buffy has her cheek leaned on Willow's shoulder, so no one particularly wants him hanging around.

Spike looks around for an exit and catches sight of Tara in the other room. She's eating by herself on the couch, picking half-heartedly at her eggs with a fork, and she looks over at him when he walks up.

"Think I might squeeze in?" Spike asks jokingly.

Tara smiles lopsidedly and makes a show of looking around. "Oh, I think so. Let me just…"

She scoots a little down the couch, taking her plate with her.

The plastic crinkles under Spike's weight. He sets his plate down and gives her a better look—she's wearing new clothes, possibly another stop on Harris's field trip last night, and she seems herself again, if not more like the meek version of old.

Probably to be expected, after what the girl went through. Spike wonders how much she remembers.

"Good job on Red, getting you back," he offers, curbing it with a mouthful of pancake.

Tara smiles again, this time tentative, and brushes her hair behind her ears. She doesn't say anything in return, but he didn't really need her to.

He should probably be more irritated by all the soft spots he's getting—too busy still reeling from the first.

Someone shrieks with laughter in the kitchen—maybe Dawnie, since it's simultaneous with the sound of something smashing on the floor and a put-upon sigh that can only belong to Buffy.

"They're in rare form," Spike observes. "It's always like this after an apocalypse, is it?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know," Tara says earnestly. "It's my first time."

"Ah," Spike says agreeably. "Mine too. Been to the main event a few times, but I've never made the after party. Guess you an' me are moving up in the world."

Tara laughs silently—more a purposeful exhale of breath. 

Spike goes back to his pancakes, a little pleased with himself.

~*~

Spike finally slinks home at sundown—he doesn't like his odds of having a successful blanket-assisted dash to the sewers with his body in the state it is—and convalesces there in peace for three days. 

He goes through all his blood; probably the stupidest downside of being vaguely aligned with the forces of good is that apparently that means no one pays you for anything anymore—except for sometimes when he's on nibblet duty, which means his financial stability is on par with your average sixteen year-old girl.

He should probably join the feminist movement.

In any case, Spike's hungry and mostly healed, painting his nails when Buffy waltzes into his crypt.

"Slayer," Spike says, not looking up to mask the trill in his stomach. "To what do I owe the interruption?"

"I need you to watch Dawn tonight," Buffy says.

"Why?" he asks, glancing at her at that. "What's wrong?"

Buffy says, "Nothing," but takes the time to close the door. "I've gotta patrol."

"And all your real friends are busy, is that it?"

She scrunches up her mouth, fussing a little internally, and then admits, "I let Ben go."

Christ.

Spike looks at her proper, setting his nail polish bottle down on the table. Slowly, he says, "Right. Do we need to go over how bloody stupid that was?"

Buffy's eyes flash. "He was innocent."

"And I'm the Queen of bloody England," Spike snarks. "Please, Slayer—at _best_ that coward was aiding and abetting and we both know it. Let's not act like a pair of dumb blondes about it."

Buffy crosses her arms over his chest, her mouth set in a hard line. "He just… didn't wanna die. Can we really fault him for that?"

"Uh, _yeah."_ Spike picks up his polish again. "My rearranged organs might have a bone or two to pick."

"Oh, please. They're re-rearranging."

Spike's not actually positive that they did that part right, but they're mostly superfluous, anyway. It's just the principle of the thing.

"He told me he'd leave town," Buffy continues. "And I believe him. I just wanna make sure I… extra believe him."

"So it's you or me with the nibblet," Spike concludes. He finishes the second coat on his pinky and wipes at a smudge with his thumb. "Got it. I got time to finish these?"

"Sure," Buffy says. "Can you come by at eight?"

Spike hums agreeably. 

Buffy tosses a wad of small bills onto the table, scattering them everywhere, which Spike is sure was on purpose. She doesn't say thanks, but she does say, "See you tonight," on her way out the door.

Spike should do a third coat. Make sure they look nice.

~*~

Somewhere around seven, Spike takes a stroll into town. He stops at the butcher's first to pick himself up some dinner, then it's two blocks over to the Blockbuster. It's a new cashier working—Spike wonders if someone ate the old one—and, as usual, the girl eyes him with an expression somewhere between wary and hot for it.

Town like Sunnydale, the whole bad boy look starts to get an extra level of reputation. 

"Evenin', love," Spike says casually, making his way back to the new releases. He skims his fingers over the titles, searching for the perfect combination of _the one we'll show Buffy_ and _the one we'll watch after she leaves._ Maybe a third one, in case Buffy gets held up on patrol.

Spike makes his selections and then gets distracted by the candy bins near the register. Well, the little bit _will_ need dinner. He might go a little overboard, based on the dwindling wad of cash he's left with after he pays the clerk.

He used to just steal shit when he needed it. Being a neutral member of society is bloody exhausting.

Dawn answers the door when he gets to the house. "Get out while you still can—she's in a mood."

"Well, then we won't share our candy," Spike says, holding up the bags in his hand.

"Ugh," Buffy says, rounding the corner. She looks tired; he hadn't noticed in his crypt. "You're not eating that crap for dinner. Order a pizza or something."

Spike slips into the foyer and lets Dawn snatch the Blockbuster bag from his grasp. "Well, your instructions weren't very specific, Slayer. You should've said it was dinner money."

Buffy rolls her eyes and pulls out her wallet. She frowns, glancing between what looks like a few meager bills and then over at Dawn, who's already in the living room tearing into a box of Buncha Crunch.

"Did you spend it all?" Buffy asks quietly.

Spike says, "I've got it, Slayer."

 _"Real_ dinner, though," Buffy warns, even as she flicks her eyes to him gratefully. "And she's got school tomorrow, so make sure she goes to bed."

"I'm not a kid!" Dawn shouts. "Spike's not the boss of me!"

Spike tells Buffy, "I'll see what I can do."

She leaves her wallet on the alcove and brushes past him towards the door. "Thanks. I'll be back—"

"Hey," Spike says, grabbing lightly at her elbow. She turns to him, annoyance plain on her face. "Did _you_ eat?"

"Yeah," Buffy lies. She tugs her arm free. "I better get going."

Spike says, "Happy hunting," and then she's gone.

Dawn is turning on the VCR.

"You pick your poison yet?" Spike asks her, raising his voice so she can hear him from the kitchen. "And what for the pizza—anchovies again?"

"That's not gonna get funnier if you tell it more," Dawn says.

Spike shrugs, unrepentant. Pepperoni and mushrooms it is, the little freak. He plucks the menu off the fridge and dials the number on the back.

The bloke on the phone says it'll take almost an hour—busy night. They might as well start the movie, then.

~*~

Spike answers the door in vamp face and snatches the pizza box out of the delivery boy's hands while he screams. Hazards of living in Sunnydale.

"If you do that too many times, they're gonna stop delivering here," Dawn tells him when he plops back down on the couch, pizza box deposited on the coffee table.

"Domino's is better anyway." Spike shrugs, unrepentant. He flips open the box and says, "Eat up."

Dawn claps her hands together and dives straight for the mushroomiest piece. She winces, burning her fingers on the cheese, and bites into it anyway. "Do you want any?"

"Nah." Spike gestures with his mug of blood. "Save some for big sis."

"Yeah," Dawn says through a mouthful of cheese. "She's always a pig after she slays."

Spike hides a fond smile behind the rim of his mug.

Dawn sets her pizza down in the box and asks, "Has she been weird lately to you?"

No kidding.

"How d'you mean?" Spike asks.

"She's always weird after she saves the world." Dawn frowns thoughtfully, counting the examples out on her fingers. "That summer after we moved here, and she ran away after she killed Angel—"

Spike knows for a fact that Joyce threw her out of the house. But he's not gonna spoil her memory now—wouldn't be right.

"—and then when they blew up the school and he dumped her she was a huge butt until she went off to college."

"Well, sure," Spike says, even though he's pretty sure her list is missing an apocalypse or two. "But bad shit happened all those times. Nothing bad happened this time."

Dawn folds her arms over her chest, glaring at him defiantly. "I know she was gonna jump."

Spike shifts uncomfortably, putting his mug down on the end table. "But she didn't, nibblet."

"I keep thinking about what I'd do," says Dawn. "If you hadn't saved me."

Spike furrows his eyebrows with concern.

"Like, I should've been like Buffy, right?" she asks—looks like she's working herself into a fit, with her eyes and voice going wet. "I should've jumped, to stop it. I keep telling myself I would've been brave enough but I was so scared—"

"Hey, now," Spike cuts in. He leans closer, holding her gaze firmly. "It never would've come to that. Me an' Buff would let the whole soddin' world burn before anything touched you."

"But that's _wrong,"_ Dawn insists. "The world for one person is wrong and that's why Buffy—why she was gonna—"

She cuts off with a hiccuped sob, hiding her face in her hands. 

Is there something wrong with Spike, that women keep unexpectedly crying in front of him lately? He used to have to work for it.

Tentatively, he reaches out a hand and pets her upper back, trying to be soothing. She sobs harder and throws herself at him in a hug, her arms squeezing tight around his ribs. 

God, she was strung up on that tower like a Christmas ornament, all bare feet and pretty dress. She's not much younger than Buffy was when Spike first tried to sink his teeth in.

Dawn sobs unrepentantly against his chest, his shirt sticking to his skin from the snot and tears soaking through it. She cries and cries until no sound is even coming out anymore, like she's wringing the feeling out of her to make sure it's all gone, and Spike thinks of how much Buffy's protected her from that she can still feel this afraid.

Thinks of Buffy, choking on every noise that left her throat like each one was a fight she'd lost. Playing her own jailer, the feeling trapped by the cage of her sternum, rotting there. Too much work left to be done.

 _You don't know how much she's given you,_ Spike thinks, and cards his fingers through Dawn's hair while she weeps. _That's part of the gift._

~*~

Spike startles awake at the sound of something outside, but he relaxes when he realizes it's Buffy's footsteps approaching the house. He lets his eyes droop shut again drowsily.

Dawn fell asleep halfway through the second movie, curled up under a blanket with her head resting on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her. The TV is blue-screened with the tape half-ejected, so clearly Spike didn’t make it to the end either.

Spike was intermittently an only child—the only one of his siblings who lived past twelve. He wonders he'd have felt for them as he does Dawn, if any of them had survived. Not that he could've done much protecting, then. 

Maybe they'd have been ashamed of him, as Mother was in the end.

The key turns in the lock and Buffy steps inside, shutting the door quietly behind her. He listens to her shed her coat and step out of her boots, and then there's a hand on his shoulder.

Spike smirks to let her know he's awake.

"Some guard dog," Buffy teases softly.

Spike hums, glancing up at her; he fell asleep with the lights on, so he can see the curve of her mouth. "I'd know you anywhere, Slayer."

She withdraws her hand. "It's already light out. Sorry."

Spike frowns. "Trouble?"

"Just the usual kind," she says. "Help me get her to bed?"

Spike shifts slowly, trying to sit up without waking Dawn, and Buffy scoops her into her arms. He follows them up the stairs and opens Dawn's door for her, then pulls back the covers so Buffy can tuck her in.

Dawn grumbles and rolls over, hugging a stuffed rabbit to her chest, but she doesn't wake up. 

The lights are off in the upstairs hallway. Buffy leans against the wall and says, "No sign of Glory or her weirdo minions."

"That's good, innit?" Spike asks, leaning against the opposite wall.

"Yeah." Buffy glances down the stairs, towards the front door. "I just found a vamp nest on my way back. They had—"

"I get it, Slayer," Spike says. "You had to do the hero thing."

Buffy tells him, "You can stay here if you want."

"You sure I won't shed all over the couch?" Spike jokes.

She rolls her eyes.

"I've got my trusty blanket," Spike offers. "Dashing for the sewers keeps me young."

"Whatever," says Buffy. She brushes past him, heading downstairs.

Spike trails after her. "You're not sleeping?"

Buffy stretches her arms above her head—one of her shoulders pops, betraying injury. "Is there pizza left?"

"Think there might be a slice or two," Spike says of the half a box left in the fridge.

"Pizza is good," Buffy intones. "Pizza is life."

Spike smiles at her from the kitchen doorway, bracing his shoulder against one side. He loves her like this—up all night and a little loopy with it. He loves her every way he's ever seen her, but especially with the sun rising.

Buffy does a little upper body wiggle when she finds the leftovers and stuffs the first slice into her mouth cold.

"I hate mushrooms," she says around the pizza. "If the monks made her and all, why'd they make her so weird?"

Spike raises an eyebrow. "Said they made her from you, didn't they?"

Buffy gapes at him in offense.

Spike shrugs and gestures at the pizza box. "Want me to warm it up for you?"

Buffy says, _"Ew,_ what's wrong with you?"

"What?" Spike asks, putting his hands up. "I meant the pizza."

"I know," Buffy says, then makes a second _ew_ face when she processes the innuendo. "Cold pizza is the Antonio Banderas of foods. You order pizza so you can eat it cold later at four AM."

It's at least six-thirty, judging by the amount of sun filtering through the back door, but Spike doesn't nitpick.

"Cold pizza," he repeats. "Really?"

Buffy takes another bite, frowning at him. "Did they have pizza when you were alive?"

"Not as such," says Spike. "In England, anyway."

Buffy says, "Try some," and waves the flaccid thing around in his face.

Spike snorts and says, "Uh…"

Buffy wiggles the pizza again.

Spike tries some. It doesn't taste like much to him, and the texture's less interesting cold. 

"Must be a human thing," he says.

Buffy hops up onto one of the kitchen stools, unfazed by his pizza-based rejection. She chews thoughtfully for a moment, then asks, "How was she?"

Spike meanders over to the stool next to her and takes a seat. "Alright, I guess. She cried a while—pretty shaken up over the whole Glory deal."

Buffy frowns, looking down at her half-eaten pizza. "I thought so. God, why didn't she tell me?"

"Probably the same reason you don't tell her anything," Spike says. "Doesn't wanna worry you."

"I guess." Buffy stands again, pacing the kitchen restlessly. She grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it in the sink and, still not looking at him, asks, "If she was someone else's sister, would you have killed her?"

Spike blinks. "Well, yeah. Wouldn't you?"

Buffy shuts off the tap.

"Heard you put a sword through your boy's gut when it counted," Spike says.

Buffy says, "I was young."

And what, then, does that mean? That she was braver, stronger? Loved the world a little more?

"Not so selfish," she says.

"Buff," Spike says, bewildered. "You were gonna—"

He cuts off, his chest suddenly aching with it.

"Because it's too hard." Buffy finally turns to face him, the small of her back pressing against the countertop. "How was I supposed to live with that?"

Spike swallows thickly. "You don't have to."

"Ben's dead," Buffy says. "I think I killed him."

Spike frowns in confusion.

"There was this… shrine," Buffy explains slowly. She has that not-laughter tint to her voice, like it's tilting upwards but not happily. "All her creepy little minions were there. And it was… where I left him."

"But he was alive," Spike asks. "When you left him."

Buffy runs a hand through her hair. "He was pretty banged up. I only ever hit Glory, but—but I guess maybe it was something internal? I mean, I must have broken something, or…"

"So it was an accident," Spike coaxes. "On your quest to save the world."

"I bashed her with a hammer," Buffy retorts. "I knew it was Ben's body too and—"

"Oh, sod off!" Spike snaps, and she flinches with her mouth hung open. Spike gestures forcefully in irritation. "I'm not one of your little friends, Slayer, I don't go in for your sob stories."

Buffy's eyes flash with anger. "Where do you get off—"

"You saved the fucking world," Spike reminds her. "No one pays you, I can count on one hand the number of people who _thank_ you, and one miserable little coward who should've offed himself when the whole bloody mess started is worth torturing yourself over?"

"You're just like Giles," Buffy accuses. "You don't even see people, you just see numbers and bodies."

"I see _you!"_ Spike throws his hands up, exasperated, looking desperately at the disgust on her face. "Damn it all, Buffy, it's just you. So, yeah, I couldn't give a rat's arse about Ben, 'cause he almost took Dawn away from us. He almost took _you_ away. I'd kill him myself as many times as it took."

Buffy shakes her head in disbelief, her eyes wide and a little wet. _"Us?"_

"You know what I mean," Spike says.

"I—I think you should go." Buffy presses a hand to her temple, shaking fingers slipping into her hair. "I can't—I can't look at you."

Spike's throat is tight. "Buffy—"

"Just go, Spike."

Spike turns on his heels and storms out, grabbing his blanket off the banister and slamming the front door behind him. The sunlight's not oppressive yet; he wishes it was. His skin barely singes on his way to the sewer and he's left to burn up from the inside instead—this hot, humiliated anger that wants to swallow him up.

That isn't anger at all. He bloodies his knuckles against the tunnel wall, damp concrete grating against the skin, and he just wants to be back in that fucking house. To be telling her whatever she wants to hear so she'll let him stay, want him just a little.

He shakes out the sting and stalks home.

~*~

Buffy doesn't talk to him for three weeks, and then she's standing outside his door without coming inside.

Spike can sense her. He itches to throw the door open, just to see her sooner, to make sure she doesn't leave—but he wants to let her walk in. He's gonna play it cool.

The door swings open. 

"Hey," says Buffy.

Spike's stomach flutters as soon as he gets a look at her—leather jacket, pink top and matching lipstick and her hair pulled away from her throat.

"Hi, Buffy," he says.

"Can you watch Dawn tonight?" she asks, quirking her lips like she's poking at them both. "All my real friends are busy."

Spike says, "Yeah, I can do that."

Buffy's shoulders lower half an inch, but there's still something about her expression that's a little off. "Um, can I… pay you back? Like, maybe on the first? It's just…"

Spike turns all the way around in his chair, tilting his head with concern. "Having money problems, Slayer?"

"It's just—with Mom being gone." She brushes her bangs from her face. "There's all this stuff to figure out still, like what to do with the gallery, and the mortgage isn't paid off, so…"

"Buffy," Spike says earnestly, "if you need money—"

"I don't want your blood money, Spike," Buffy tells him impatiently. Then tilts her head up to the ceiling, gesturing emphatically. "I mean, as-in money you got from doing shady stuff, not your—and the fact that I've gotta specify is exactly why I don't wanna have this conversation with you."

Spike frowns. "Why are you, then? All this balancing checkbooks dribble sounds like Giles' department if you ask me."

Buffy scrunches up her mouth. "It's been weird between us since…"

"He wanted to off your sister?" Spike supplies.

"Kinda puts a damper on things," says Buffy. "But I'll figure it out.”

Spike suggests, “Hey, maybe you can get Red to conjure some paper for you. Seems like the tasty flavor of moral ambiguity she goes in for these days.”

Buffy rolls her eyes and says, “Can you do it or not?"

"Yeah, Slayer, don't sweat it." Spike cracks his neck. "When do you want me?"

Buffy says, "Eight, like usual?"

"I'll be there," he tells her.

"Thanks," she says, and leaves without saying anything else.

So they're just ignoring the fight, then. That works just fine for Spike. He doesn't need to talk about feelings and shit.

~*~

"I'm sorry," Spike says, hiding his giggle behind a shot of whiskey. He wheezes, flapping his hand encouragingly. "Just—just say it again."

Anya pouts at him and mutters, "Xander and I are getting married."

Spike laughs again. "You're marrying _Harris?"_

"Hey!" Anya protests. "I love Xander, okay, so lay off with the mean laughing. I don't mean laugh about your crush on Buffy."

"I don't have a crush on Buffy," Spike says automatically. He may be a little drunk, from how it sort of trips over his tongue.

Anya raises an eyebrow disbelievingly and pours herself another drink.

"So sorry," Spike says hastily. "Let's talk about you. Let's see the ring, shall we?"

Anya, easily diverted, claps her hands together and pulls the ring out of her purse. She slips it onto her finger and holds it out for Spike to inspect.

"It's pretty," Spike says approvingly.

"I wish I could wear it all the time," Anya says. "But Xander doesn't want us to tell anyone yet. Oh, by the way, you're sworn to secrecy."

Spike furrows his eyebrows. "Why's that?"

"I don't know!" Anya sighs in frustration. "That's why I wanted advice. He keeps saying we should wait for the right time, but when's that gonna be?"

"Well, when did he pop the question?" Spike asks. He fumbles for the whiskey bottle, loses track of his shot glass, and drinks straight from it instead.

"Oh, right when he thought we were all gonna die," Anya says nonchalantly. Then, when Spike makes a pointed face at her, "I made him re-do it later! He said he still wanted to even when we _weren't_ under threat of death."

Spike wags a finger at her and says, "See, _that's_ how you know it's real."

Anya throws back her shot with impressive resolve.

"So, like a month and a half, give or take?" Spike clarifies.

"Yeah," Anya says. "Is that normal? I've been doing a lot of reading and I don't think that's normal."

Spike says, "You know I'm a vampire, right? Not exactly the expert on human fuckin' courtship."

Anya slumps lower in her chair. "It's like he's ashamed of me or something. Or embarrassed. Is he embarrassed to be marrying me?"

"If he is, he's a right wanker," Spike tells her, gesturing broadly at her person. "I mean, look at Harris and then look at you. That's not how you treat a person you love."

"No, right?" Anya tilts her chin up resolutely. "He should be proud of me! I'm pretty and I'm _very_ good at sex, and I'm a productive member of society now! I'm doing great work at the magic shop."

"He should be singin' from the rafters." Spike tips the whiskey at her. "Hell, if I was with Buffy, I'd—I'd tell ev'ryone."

Anya says, "He's always all, 'Anya, humans don't do that' this and 'Anya, that's not appropriate' that. Well, you're marrying a demon, buddy, get used to it!"

"Not that she appreciates me," Spike mutters. "It's all just 'Spike, watch Dawn for me, Spike' and 'Spike, track this Strom demon for me, Spike.'"

"You're saying your own name a lot," Anya says. "Are you listening to me?"

Spike blinks at her. "Yeah, yes, go on."

"I'm just gonna tell Xander he has to let me start telling people," Anya decides. "I'll give him a deadline."

"Yeah," Spike encourages. "You tell 'im, pet."

"Okay, but remember, you can't tell anyone until I say so!" Anya reminds him. "Or Xander will freak out."

Spike says, "Cross my heart."

~*~

"They're _engaged?"_ Buffy repeats.

"But you can't tell anyone," Spike reminds her. "Or I'll lose my cred and no one'll give me the hot goss anymore."

Buffy wrinkles her nose at Spike's use of lingo, but she puts her hands up in agreement. They're leaned up against the bar at the Bronze, waiting for the bartender to make her way over. Spike's been lurking for a while, but Buffy's just gotten here early to meet her friends.

"Willow's gonna wig," Buffy says. _"I'm_ gonna wig. Are you fucking with me?"

Spike says, "Yeah, I've decided since I can't kill you, I'll settle for psychological torment instead."

"You've literally done that before," says Buffy.

She's got him there.

"When did they get engaged? How did he propose?" Buffy leans in closer, looking a little wild in the eyes. "Oh my god, she's not pregnant, is she? Can ex-demons get pregnant?"

"Woah, down girl." Spike puts a hand up, laughter coloring his voice. "One thing at a time, alright?"

Buffy smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. I just miss when these were our biggest problems. Who made out with who, you know? Normal stuff."

Spike props an elbow up on the bar and says, "I heard he did it right before we went after Glory."

"No _way,"_ Buffy says. She looks delighted. "Oh, that totally makes sense! It was his apocalypse freakout."

"That's a patented thing, is it?" Spike asks.

"Oh, everyone's had one," Buffy tells him. "That's how Willow lost her virginity."

Spike raises an eyebrow. "Wasn't Tara…?"

"Oh, no, this was before she was gay." Buffy waves him off. "You know, with Oz?"

"Red shagged a 'wolf?" Spike asks, impressed. "Good for her."

"Not _while_ he was a wolf." Buffy tilts her head, considering. "... I think."

Spike's about to lobby several follow-up questions when the bartender appears and asks, "What can I get you?"

"Oh, I'll just have a water," Buffy answers.

Spike looks at her in abject disapproval.

"Oh, see, I'm trying out this thing where I'm a responsible grown-up with a budget?" Buffy says brightly. "It totally blows."

Spike tells the bartender, "Whatever's on tap that's hoppy and cheap, one of those onion things with extra sauce, and the lady's on me."

Buffy says, "Spike."

Spike says, "She likes bourbon. Stronger the—"

"A piña colada," Buffy relents, shoving a hand in Spike's face to keep him from talking. "Please."

The bartender smiles indulgently. "That and the food'll take a sec. You got a table?"

Spike, resisting the urge to bite Buffy's fingers, turns to look out over the club. He nudges Buffy and says, "Our usual's open."

"You mean the one where you told me gross stories about how you murdered my predecessors and punched me in the stomach?" Buffy asks. "Sure."

Spike takes his beer from the bartender and points out their table, leaving cash on the bar for her to take. 

The table's small—intimate, which is why Spike picked it even then. Buffy rests her bare forearms on the sticky high top, her peacoat draped over the back of her chair, and Spike can smell her shampoo undercutting the sweat and cigarette smoke.

"I don't get you," Buffy tells him.

"Well, I'm very reasonably priced," he answers. "Hell, you could put me on layaway."

Buffy rolls her eyes and gestures at his drink. "The beer and food and stuff. Angel always said vampires couldn't really taste anything."

Spike snorts. "That's because our Angelus's always gotta be all tortured and deprived about everything. Me, I'll take what I can get out of the ride."

"Meaning…?" 

"We can't taste like you can, sure—especially mild stuff. Honestly, I've been like this long enough I can't really remember the difference," Spike explains. "But bold flavors, especially spicy ones, still hit you—and textures make it interesting. That's why I like the onion."

"So you just… eat it 'cause it's better than nothing?" Buffy summarizes.

And for the image. Spike takes a pointed sip of his beer. 

A different server hands Buffy her drink—it's got a hot pink umbrella in it and everything, with a delicate design painted on the translucent paper. She thanks him, then swirls the lime green straw around in the glass a few times before she commits to taking a sip.

Her entire face scrunches up when the brain freeze hits; she spits the straw back out and smacks her hand on the table, doing a full body wriggle in her chair.

She looks for all the world like a normal girl.

"Damn," Spike teases fondly, "if only I'd known your weakness when I was trying to kill you."

Buffy glares at him and, defiantly, wraps her lips around the straw again.

Spike leans back in his chair at an angle, one shoulder braced on the staircase their table is pushed up against, looking out over the room.

"Mm," Buffy says, averting a second brain freeze. "Were you and Drusilla, like, married?"

Spike snorts derisively on instinct, caught off-guard by the question. "Not hardly."

"Why?" Buffy asks. She plucks the little paper umbrella out of her drink and twirls it between two fingers.

"Because, it's—" Spike pauses, frustrated. "It's so— _human._ So—"

"Lame?" Buffy supplies, sounding vaguely dejected.

"Small, I was gonna say." Spike glances out over the room, at these crowds of people who live translucent little lives. "Nothing but surface. I told you, didn't I? Love is blood. It's _raw._ It's all the way in you. It doesn't need all that cheap pomp and pretty window dressing."

Buffy accuses, "Oh, please—you were a poet! You can't write poetry and not like weddings."

"I didn't write it so a mess of strangers could think it was pretty," Spike protests. "I didn't even write it to be good, which it wasn't."

"Then why?" Buffy asks.

Spike plucks the umbrella from her hands. "Why do you kill us?"

Buffy blinks at him like it's obvious. "Because I have to."

Spike tucks the umbrella behind her ear. _Got it in one._

Buffy's fingers go up, brushing against it in some combination of tentative and lightning-quick, and then both her hands are folded on the table.

"But you stopped," she says.

Spike nods into a sip of his beer.

"When?" she asks. "When you died?"

The server deposits the fried onion between them, an extra sauce cup balanced precariously on the edge of the plate. Spike gestures for Buffy to have some, which she does with none of the reservation she had when he wanted to buy her a drink.

Buffy stuffs four onion strips into her mouth at once, which gives her chipmunk cheeks, and rests her elbows contentedly on the table.

"Anyway," Spike says. "Captain Forehead would've given you a wedding. A big fancy one with a man of the cloth and everything if that was your bag—he'd've lost that pesky soul of his all over again, seeing you done up in white."

"Would you?" Buffy asks innocently, except for the challenge in her eyes. She dips another onion strip in the sauce cup without taking her eyes off his dumbstruck face. "I mean, not that I'm asking, but you would, right? Since you're so in love with me."

Spike's never been glad to see Xander Harris before, but there's a first time for everything.

"Hey there, little lady," Xander says as he approaches the table, in what Spike assumes is an attempt at impersonating a sheriff in a Western. "Is this feller botherin' ya?"

Buffy rolls her eyes, turning to face him. "What even is that accent?"

Anya appears behind him, holding two drinks in her hand. She takes in the scene and asks, "Oh, is Spike invited to stuff now?"

"We just ran into each other," Buffy says quickly.

Spike dunks an onion strip into the sauce cup, mood suddenly dour.

"Well, we're gonna need a bigger table," Xander says. "Will and Tara just got here too."

"Oh, yeah, totally," Buffy agrees, laughing nervously. "Is the big one open in the back?"

Xander cranes his neck. "Looks like it. Better go stake our claim before the youths steal it for their revelry."

Buffy raises an eyebrow at Anya. "Is he okay?"

"The bouncer didn't card him at the door," Anya says. 

"I've aged," Xander says. "I've witnessed one too many apocalypsi and everyone can tell I've got one foot in the fuckin' grave."

Buffy suggests, "Or he just recognized you because we come here all the time?"

Xander asks, "Does this look like a gray hair to you?"

"Psh," Spike mutters. "No one asks me for ID and you don't see me getting my knickers in a twist."

Xander stares at him. "You're, like, a hundred and fifty."

"But I don't look a _day_ over one-thirty-eight, and that's what matters."

Buffy's lips twitch.

Xander says, "C'mon, Buff, let's grab a table and then go dance. Help me reclaim my lost youth."

"Alright, alright." Buffy snags her drink and hops to her feet, her free hand going up to touch the umbrella as she does. "I'll see what I can do. Hey, maybe Willow's got a spell for that! She can revert you to that fresh-faced boy of twenty and a half you were last month."

"Do you think she would?" Xander asks, and then they're out of earshot unless Spike works for it.

He doesn't. He picks at the onion a little and drinks his beer, glancing out over the room.

Spike could dance too, if he wanted. He could find someone young and pretty and take them—well, to their home. Some people are into the crypt, maybe, but it's a little hard to explain.

The point is, he doesn't need this shit. Just because he can't go around eating people doesn't mean he can only spend time with the fucking white hats who don't even want him around.

Buffy makes a dash back over to the table, bracing her hands against it when she skips to a stop. She snatches her coat off the back of her chair and says, "Forgot this!" before disappearing as quickly as she came.

She was still wearing the little umbrella.

Spike throws back the rest of his beer.


	2. Chapter 2

The first sign that's something wrong is that Buffy actually knocks before coming inside. The second sign is that she tells Spike, "I need a favor."

Spike is patching up his duster after another vamp's teeth sunk into it the night before. He glances up at her and asks, "What's wrong?"

"Angel called," Buffy says. "They've got a capital-A apocalypse brewing in LA—it's all hands on deck."

Spike raises his eyebrows. "Really?"

"I know, right?" says Buffy. "Usually they're in May."

Spike shrugs. "Some people just got no respect for tradition." He puts down his fabric glue and hops to his feet. "I'll drive."

"What? No." Buffy looks at him like he's off his bird. "I need you to hold down the fort here."

Spike frowns at her. "You said all hands on deck, pet. I've got two."

"You'd really go to LA to help Angel?" Buffy asks.

"Uh, no, I'd go to help _you,"_ Spike says slowly. "Jeez, Slayer, do you even listen when I talk? It's been a whole thing."

Buffy says, "I need someone keeping an eye on things in town. Me and Willow are gonna go."

"This is really a step up in my lucrative babysitting career," Spike says. "A whole town now."

"You've gotta do most of the patrolling," Buffy warns. "You can get the guys to help you but _don't_ let anyone go alone. They travel in packs and that's it."

"Yes _ma'am,"_ Spike says, saluting jauntily.

Buffy rolls her eyes. "And you'll stay with Dawn? School's out and I don't want her home by herself all day. And, you know, everyone else has a life."

Spike would be insulted, but he's pretty sure Buffy just offered to let him stay in her _house._

"Not a problem," he says.

Buffy nods, her expression subtly shifting into business mode. "Okay, so I'm gonna leave you money and, um, if I'm—Giles has the account info if you need it, but don't spend it all right away, okay, and feed her _real food—"_

"Got it," Spike says.

"—and she knows what all her chores are so don't let her lie to you, and she can stay at her friends' houses but don't let anyone come over 'cause I _really_ don't wanna have to explain who you are—"

"I've got it," says Spike.

"—and Tara or Xander are the best babysitters for when you patrol, don't leave her alone with Anya 'cause Dawn'll kill her, and if you make me regret trusting you with this I swear to God I'll fucking stake you myself."

Spike says, "Buffy."

Buffy rests a hand on her hip. "What?"

There's so many things Spike wants to say. _I love you, come back soon. Don't fall back in love with him, if you ever even stopped._

_Just come back._

Buffy blinks at him, a pair of sunglasses perched on her head and a black sweatshirt tied around her waist, and there's nothing he could say out loud that she needs to hear.

Spike says, "Happy hunting."

"Thanks," Buffy tells him, and then she's off to save the world.

~*~

"That's what you get for holding a bloody double wedding," Spike says derisively, shoving another handful of popcorn into his mouth. "Tacky as hell if you ask me."

 _"Shh,"_ says Giles.

"And the whole bit with the bloody poison is so dramatic," Spike complains. "And why on the ring? If you need the girl dead that badly—"

Giles says, "Why do you even watch it if you're just going to criticize—"

He cuts off when Ivy plows her car straight into the church.

"Bloody hell!" Giles exclaims.

Spike laughs delightedly. "Now _that's_ more like it!"

Giles huffs in a distinctly British fashion and stays raptly focused on the telly.

It's nice, watching from the Summers' living room. Better stereo, for one, and Spike would rather stake himself than admit it, but it's actually pleasant to have someone to watch with again. 

He misses Joyce. It's an uncomfortable bruise in his gut.

The episode ends before Ivy can make her big announcement, of course. Giles stands, fiddling with his shirtsleeves, and says, "Well, that certainly was, ah… television."

"Same time tomorrow?" Spike asks absently, distracted by the credits.

"I suppose," Giles says. Spike catches him frowning out of the corner of his eye. "I'd hoped Buffy would be back by now."

It's been over a week, which is longer than any apocalypse has a right to shake out for, in Spike's opinion. 

"Maybe she had to kill Angel again," he suggests. "Took a little trip down the coast to celebrate."

"She has seemed… unfocused, as of late," Giles admits, though that's not exactly what Spike was suggesting. "Since Glory."

Spike shrugs noncommittally.

"Has she said anything to you?" Giles asks.

"Who, me?" Spike puts a hand to his chest in mock disbelief. "Over you?"

Giles takes his glasses off and wipes them irritably on his shirt. "For reasons I can't personally fathom, you do seem to have her confidence as of late."

"Aw, cheer up mate," Spike says brightly. "Maybe next week I'll threaten to off the nibblet and you an' me'll be even again."

Giles scowls openly now, still holding his glasses in one hand, and says, "You know very well that I—it was the only sensible option, as—as a last resort. It was the only _moral_ option, if it came to it."

"That's where you're wrong, mate," Spike tells him. "You don't give up on your own—damn the world."

Giles replaces his glasses on his face and says archly, "I seem to recall you aligning with a certain mortal enemy to prevent the end of the world—at the expressed protest of your lover."

Spike bristles, the back of his neck growing hot. He hates that he's still sitting, but he doesn't wanna let Giles get a literal rise out of him now.

"That was for Dru's own good," he argues. "She just didn't know it."

"I'm sure she'll come around any day now," Giles patronizes.

All of Spike's comebacks center around the fact that he's totally over Dru now, anyway, all about the Slayer, and that's not something he wants Giles to be reminded of either—if he's not already thinking it. Everyone already thinks he's all pathetic. No need to add salt to his own wound.

"Anyway, Rupe, I wouldn't worry so much," he says instead—partly to deflect, and partly because he does still sort of want Giles to come back for _Passions_ tomorrow. "This shit's always water under the bridge with you sods eventually, right? What, with Glory being dead and all, it's not like the sororicide'll come up again."

Giles stiffens. "What did you say?"

"Sororicide," Spike repeats slowly, which is hell with the accent. "It means—"

"Glory is dead?" Giles interrupts. "How—how do you know that?"

Damn, the old man really has fallen out of favor.

"Buffy didn't tell you?" Spike asks, and he does stand up at that. "She killed Ben."

Giles wets his bottom lip. "Buffy told you this?"

"Well, yeah." Spike scrutinizes Giles' face. He looks off—more perturbed than he should be. "She came back from patrol, said she found those minions building some kind of monument."

"But she left him alive," Giles says. "She could never—"

"Not on purpose, no—that's not our girl." Spike narrows his eyes. "Do you know something?"

Giles glances away and stammers, "I—I simply think it's hasty to assume what happened. I'd hate for Buffy to be blaming herself when…"

"Yeah," Spike says warily. "Me too. She was real torn up about it, you know."

Giles takes his glasses back off again, fidgeting restlessly. 

A man who's willing to kill an innocent teenage girl seems perfectly capable of offing a psycho hell-god's alter-ego.

"I did tell her it was just as well," Spike offers. "I'd've done him in myself if I could. 'Specially if he was just lying there, maybe one foot in the grave…"

"You'll let me tell her myself?" Giles asks tiredly. "You understand, she was never to know. But I won't let her blame herself."

Spike thinks of Buffy's face when he brought her to Riley at that brothel. His gut twists at the thought.

"Yeah," he says. "Alright."

Giles doesn't stay long after that, just gets his coat and gives Spike an awkward nod on his way out the door. Dawn's been at the mall all afternoon, so Spike's left alone with the unsatisfactory consolation prize of having done the right thing.

Funny how that keeps happening.

~*~

Buffy stays gone for another week, and then she calls the house to let Spike know she's catching a bus home the following night. Apocalypse successfully averted.

"Yeah," Spike jokes, "but does dear ol' da still have his soul?"

She hangs up the phone.

~*~

"Spike," Buffy says. "Why the _hell_ are you in my bed?"

Spike blinks awake, smacking his lips to clear the cotton taste from his mouth, and peers at her in the hazy light filtering through the blinds. She looks right pissed off, but she's also wearing pajama pants with little piglets on them, which sort of lessens the effect.

"Uh, hey, Buff," he says. "Thought you were getting in tonight."

"I caught an earlier bus," Buffy says. "Which _so_ isn't the point."

Spike sits up against the headboard, showing off the fact that he _is_ at least wearing a shirt, thank you very much. "In my defense, you didn't say I had to sleep on the couch while you were gone."

Buffy makes several inscrutable facial expressions in quick succession and then says, "Whatever."

"How was LA?" Spike asks.

Buffy sticks out her bottom lip. “Willow got to have all the fun. She went all levitate-y and—” she makes an exploding gesture. _“Poof,_ no demons!”

“Sorry the world got saved wrong, love.”

"Thanks. Also, I think Angel's in love with Cordelia." Buffy sits down heavily on the edge of the bed. "And Wesley's… kinda a badass now? My brain's been doing that sound a phone makes when you try to use the internet at the same time for like a week."

Spike's never tried to use a phone and the internet at the same time. He asks, "Who's Wesley?"

Buffy says, "I'll tell you in the morning," and crawls into bed.

Spike glances at the clock. "It's late afternoon."

"Goodnight, Spike."

"Right then. Uh, should I—?"

Buffy kicks him onto the floor.

~*~

To his credit, it takes Giles less than a day to tell her the truth. Spike knows this because she waltzes into his crypt and snatches up the first bottle of liquor she lays eyes on, twisting the cap off so vehemently he can hear the grooves stripping.

"Alright there, Slayer?" he asks anyway, on the off chance that isn't what this is about.

"You know," she says.

Spike is sitting on the edge of his makeshift bed. He says, "Well, yeah. I would've told you if he hadn't—"

"I know." She's just holding the bottle, her hand wrapped around the neck of it, like it's more on principle than anything. She glances down at it, then comes to sit next to him on the concrete.

Spike's got chairs now, and a loveseat. He's thinking about getting a real bed, after living in the comfort of the Summers house for two weeks. But they're both sat on the concrete, the cold seeping into their bones.

"I don't know how to live like this," Buffy says. The glass scrapes against the stone because she isn't looking while she puts the bottle down. "I mean, I keep thinking—is this what I'm gonna turn into? Do you just die or grow up and turn all… all… _cold_ and…"

Spike says, "I dunno, love."

Buffy reaches for the bottle again, and she does drink this time. Her throat bobs like she almost spits it back out, and her voice is rough with it after. "Do you wanna know the worst part?"

Spike inclines his head.

"It was a relief." Buffy laughs, her eyes welling up. "I'm not stupid. I knew Glory would come back, I knew she could come for Dawn, for my friends. And Giles told me and I thought, 'thank God it wasn't me.'"

"You do enough," Spike tells her. "It shouldn't have to be you."

"But what's the alternative?" Buffy asks wetly. "Am I just—just some loaded gun? Point me and I go off? If I can't make the hard decisions, I…"

Spike touches her hand, over the bottle, and she pulls away—he wraps his fingers around the glass like it's what he wanted. The liquor burns more than usual.

"You're no one's instrument, love," he says when the ache subsides. "That's one thing I'm bloody sure of."

"Smacked her around real good," Buffy says darkly. "Left him there for Giles to finish off."

Spike breathes out a helpless puff of air, taking another swig from the bottle. "What do you want me to say here, then? D'you wanna be able to kill him or not?"

"I don't know!" Buffy snaps. She puts her hands in her hair, head hanging down with her elbows dug into her thighs. "I told you, I don't—"

"Know how to live with it," Spike says. "Yeah, I heard."

Buffy presses her face into her palms.

"... Not sure I'm the one to help you through a moral crisis," Spike ventures. "On account of the loosely-rehabilitated evil and all."

"Yeah," Buffy says, and looks up at him with her eyes still shining miserably. "But what're you gonna do, stop loving me?"

Spike's chest aches; she says it like a challenge—or a bluff.

"Seems pretty unlikely at this point," he says.

Buffy scrubs at her face, wiping the unshed tears away, and pushes to her feet. She glances back at him and asks, "Wanna go kill something?"

Mostly, Spike is thinking about kissing her. Her cheeks, specifically, or her fluttering eyelids with their damp lashes, or the sweet spot where her throat begins under her chin. But what's he gonna do?

"Yeah," he tells her. "Alright."

~*~

Willow's eyes are pitch black, iris to sclera, which Spike can tell 'cause of the giant ball of conjured sunlight that instantly incinerates the half-dozen vampires they just stumbled upon in this abandoned house.

He probably would've suffered the same fate if Tara hadn't recognized the spell and pulled him behind cover.

"Thanks," he tells her, wincing as his eyes try to readjust to the dark. 

Tara doesn't acknowledge him; she's staring at Willow with her jaw clenched, eyes wide.

Buffy, Xander, and Anya are on the other side of the room. They brush the dust off their clothes and pick their way around the rotting furniture and shredded blankets.

Buffy glances at Spike and asks, "You okay?"

"Oops!" Willow says in that faux-innocent voice of hers, furrowing her eyebrows apologetically. "Sorry about that—I was just so excited to use the spell. And it worked, see!" She turns to Tara, tugging at her sleeve. "I told you it needed more hellebore."

Tara tugs her arm free and leads the way towards the exit.

Spike tells Willow, "Not to worry, Red. Think you might've given me a tan."

"Damn," Buffy says, brushing past him. "You know how the pale really does it for me."

Spike walks into the doorframe.

~*~

"I'm telling you, she made a face!" Spike insists. He tries to reach over Buffy to get to the whiskey bottle she's holding.

Buffy holds the bottle farther away and shoves her other hand in his face. "That's kinda a thing people do."

Spike, who is sitting cross-legged on Buffy's bedroom floor, makes another lunge for it that knocks him off-balance enough that he topples over onto her lap.

Buffy squawks and pushes him off; he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

Buffy balances the bottle on his stomach.

"I mean she made a _face,"_ he says, belatedly aware that this adds no clarity to the situation. He's had a lot of whiskey. "Y'know, like she's pissed or something."

 _"You're_ pissed," says Buffy, who has also had a lot of whiskey.

"I shouldn't've taught you British."

She sticks her tongue out at him.

Spike grabs the bottle and sits up, reaching for his upended shot glass. He crawls back over to sit next to her again, leaning himself against the bed. "Tara thinks Red's gone mad with power, and that's my final stance."

Buffy frowns, taking him marginally more seriously. "Willow hasn't said anything."

"Why would she?" Spike asks. "She's the one gone mad with power."

"She's not that bad!" Buffy says defensively. "She's gotten really strong, but it's not like she's crazy or anything."

"She almost vaporized me for funsies," says Spike.

"Your point?"

Spike throws back a shot.

"Aww, now _you're_ making a face."

He rolls his eyes.

"I'll talk to her about the flaming ball of doom," Buffy allows, sounding rather put out for someone who by all accounts only has the one drinking buddy. "Baby."

Dawn appears in the doorway, bracing against it with both hands. "Are you guys gossiping?"

Spike says, "Yeah," at the same time Buffy says, "No, go away."

Dawn skips into the room and sits down across from them, her back to the dresser. "Can I join?"

"No," Buffy says again. "Go away."

"Is that whiskey?" Dawn asks, pointing at the bottle.

"It's fruit punch," says Buffy.

Dawn reaches for it. "Can I have some?"

"No," they answer in unison.

Spike grins at Buffy smugly, like, _hey, I got that one right!_

She flicks him on the eyebrow scar and tells Dawn, "We're talking about boring adult stuff."

"Ew," Dawn says, scrunching up her face, but she makes no move to leave. "Like what."

"Bills," Buffy says.

"The cable company," Spike adds.

"Bills from the cable company."

Dawn narrows her eyes suspiciously. "It didn't sound like bills. I heard _laughing_ earlier."

"That's when we were talking about the mortgage," Buffy says.

"Anyway, nibblet," Spike says. "If you wanna gossip let's have some fodder, shall we? Pay up."

Dawn purses her lips like she's considering it, and then she blurts in a rush, "Drew told me last week that he liked my lip gloss and today Sarah was wearing the exact same one!"

"Oh my god," Buffy says. "You're gonna have to kill her."

Spike looks between the two of them, baffled. "Am I missing something?"

"You've never been a teenage girl," Buffy tells him, reaching over to pat him on the knee.

"She's trying to steal my man," Dawn explains.

"Oh, well, then." Spike looks at her very seriously. "Have you considered poison?"

Dawn says, "I think I'm gonna push her in the pool the next time we go to the Y." 

"Hey," Buffy warns.

"I'm kidding, jeez!" Dawn says, putting her hands up in a way that suggests she was definitely not kidding.

Spike winks at her when Buffy isn't looking; she giggles.

"Spike," Dawn asks, "you're kinda like a boy, right?"

"That's what they tell me."

"How do I make Drew like me?"

"Oh, that one's easy," says Spike. "Push _him_ into the pool."

Buffy smacks him upside the head, which really only proves his point.

~*~

Anya wakes Spike up one afternoon in early August, dropping the manhole cover in place above her and observing, "Wow, you've got a real bed now! Did you find someone to have sex with you?"

Spike is too busy exclaiming, "Bloody _hell!"_ and yanking the covers up over his bare chest to answer.

"Oh, sorry, were you masturbating?" Anya asks. She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. "I can come back."

Spike closes his eyes and inhales deeply. "What's up, then?"

"Besides your dick?" Anya asks with typical cheerful bluntness. "I can see it through—"

Spike draws up his knees, tenting the sheets across them to hide his afternoon stiff, and protests, "I wasn't wanking!"

"I feel like you should," Anya tells him. "Not right now, just in general. You're a tense person."

"No idea why," says Spike.

"Anyway, Xander and I are telling everyone about the engagement tonight!" Anya smiles brightly. "You should come! We're having everyone over at his apartment."

Spike raises his eyebrows. "Are you sure? I'm not exactly the crowd favorite."

"Neither am I," Anya says with a shrug. "But it's my engagement and you're my friend, so I think you should come. In fact, I _invite_ you."

Spike's expression softens. "Really?"

"Sure," Anya says. She gestures at his nudity. "Wear something nice."

"I don't own anything nice," says Spike.

"Buy something nice," Anya amends, "and wear that."

He could always split the difference and steal something.

"What time about?" he asks.

"Nine?" Anya suggests. "I don't wanna feed anyone."

"Works for me," Spike says. "Good on you, by the way."

She says, "I know," and does a little finger wave at him before trouncing over to the ladder. "Bye!"

Spike pulls the covers all the way over his head and goes back to sleep.

~*~

Spike leaves his crypt a little after eight, thinking that'll give him just enough time to nab an Anya-approved outfit from one of the fancier shops downtown that'll already be closed and then walk the rest of the way to the apartment. He's having a smoke, enjoying the stroll across the graveyard to where the car is parked, when he hears hushed voices carried by the wind.

"Ow, turn the flashlight off you dumbass!"

"Mine's not working!"

"Did you press the button?"

"Of course I—oh."

Spike does a full body eye roll and sneaks up on the source—three blokes, probably around Scooby-age or a little younger, wearing headgear straight out of a Bond film and stamping around the gravestones like they've never so much as played hide and seek.

Whatever they're doing here, they're clearly not very good at it. 

Spike creeps up directly behind them, close enough so as he could scruff the little one like a cat if he wanted, and says, "Nice weather we're havin', eh?"

All three blokes yelp and trip over themselves turning around, shoving at each other to not be the one closest to Spike. The one who loses is the tallest, with deeply stupid hair.

Wait a second—

"Hey," Spike says, pointing a finger at him. "You're the one who made my robot."

"Oh, hey, Spike!" Warren says, laughing casually. "How's she working out for you?"

Spike ignores him. "What're you dimwits doing out here after dark? Don't you know what town we're in?"

"Well, wh-what are _you_ doing here, hm?" The blonde one, who is still cowering behind Warren with two hands braced on his shoulders, pipes up to ask.

"Well," says Spike patiently, "I'm a vampire."

The blonde one gasps. "No way! Prove it."

Spike flashes his fangs.

The blonde one shrieks and Warren takes a step back in caution, but the short one seems surprisingly unfazed. He looks familiar too, come to think of it—didn't he cast some spell a while back? Something that pissed the Slayer right off. Spike has a faint memory of touching her hair, but that could be another sex dream.

"Wow," the blonde breathes. "Do you like… live out here?"

"Yeah." Spike cracks his neck, shifting back into his human face. "You kids are on my lawn."

"That's _so cool,"_ says the blonde one.

Warren elbows him in the stomach.

They're all still wearing those ridiculous goggles.

Spike says, "As thrilling as this isn't, time for good little boys and girls to run home. That was sort of implied with the 'get off my lawn' bit I did. Too subtle, was it?"

"You can't make us leave," Warren says.

"Yeah!" the short one says. "It's a free country."

God, this has already been a lot of effort.

"Alright then," Spike says with a shrug, turning back in the direction of his car. "Get eaten if you want. Have a nice night."

"Eaten?" one of them squeaks—maybe the blonde one, but Spike doesn't care very much either way. He's probably behind schedule now, which is bloody perfect.

The downtown's decently crowded, but no one stops Spike when he smashes the glass doors of some namby-pamby boutique to wrassle himself up an outfit.

"Dress _nice,"_ Spike mutters to himself, going vamp face so he can see the colors better in the low light. "What the bloody hell is 'nice?'"

One of the mannequins is wearing a turtleneck jumper—one of those posh ones with a fancy knitting pattern. Fancy jumpers are nice, right? Spike gets one in red—good for hiding bloodstains, and it'll go with his duster.

Trousers. The mannequin is wearing slacks, but that seems too formal. Spike's not interviewing for a job at the bank—but his jeans are too casual, or at the least too pre-bloodstained.

Khakis are a good middle ground, right? And a thinner belt, because his usual one ruins the look. 

Yeah, this is good. Probably. It's not like he can see himself in the mirror.

He changes in the car—extra benefits of blacked-out windows—and tucks the jumper into his trousers for good measure. He's in a decent parking spot that won't get him towed, so he walks the rest of the way to Xander's.

Well, he stops to raid a liquor store first—wouldn't do to show up without a gift for the lady of the house, and he knows the kind of tequila Anya likes.

By the time he gets there, the party's already started. Spike can hear music playing from inside, and Xander, Anya, and Willow's voices. He knocks on the door a few times and gets no answer.

Spike shrugs and tries the door—it's unlocked, but his hand smacks into the mystical barrier as soon as he tries to open it more than a crack.

Damn. Apparently Anya's invite isn't good enough here.

Spike glances at the ceiling in frustration, rocking on his heels. He'll probably be stuck out here until someone else shows up, unless someone inside notices that the door's cracked.

He's considering breaking into Anya's present a little early when the elevator dings and familiar voices carry down the hall.

"And don't go through their stuff," Buffy is lecturing. "If I catch you in the bedroom again, I'll— _Spike?"_

Dawn makes a high-pitched sound and covers her mouth with both hands.

"What?" Spike looks around. "What's wrong?"

"Buffy," says Dawn.

Buffy is staring at Spike like he's the caterpillar from _Alice in Wonderland,_ which they watched last week—baffling without quite reaching off-putting. He crosses his arms defensively over his chest.

"Why do you look like you ate an LL Bean model?" Buffy asks, herself verging on hysterical.

"Anya said to dress nice," Spike tells her. He glances down at his outfit. "This is nice, innit?"

Dawn giggles shrilly.

"I hate my life," Buffy says to no one in particular, then closes the distance between them and grabs at Spike's jumper—her fingertips skim up his sides, making him shudder. "Stay still, I'm helping!"

Spike relents; Buffy untucks his jumper and fusses with it until it lays casually over the belt, then gives him a once-over.

His face burns. She locks eyes with him and smiles, only roughly two-thirds mocking him. "So you're stuck out here, huh?"

"Looks that way," Spike says, clearing his throat.

"Hmm. I'm not sure I should let you in." Buffy cocks her hip, resting one hand on it. Her nails are painted so light blue they're almost white, splitting the difference on the two-colored checkered dress she's wearing. "What'll you give me?"

Anything she'll take. Her hair's done up in low pigtail braids and he wants to pull on them, wants to get out of this bleeding outfit and onto his knees under that pretty skirt, wants to kiss the fingertips of that pretty hand and lead her into the party like a normal man.

"Came across something you might wanna know about on patrol," he says. "How's a little information?"

Buffy draws it out for a long moment, then brightly declares it, "Good enough for me!"

She waltzes into the apartment with Dawn following and leaves the door open behind her. Spike watches her go up to Xander, giving him a hug in greeting, and gesture in Spike's direction.

Xander rolls his eyes; Buffy shoves him playfully and he comes to let Spike inside.

"Hey, Spike," Xander says, bracing a hand against the wall. "What's with the outfit?"

Spike holds up the tequila bottle. "Do you want your booze or not?"

Xander steps aside. "Come on in, buddy."

Spike walks over the threshold, glancing around the apartment. It's pretty nice, almost definitely decorated by Anya. All the usual suspects are here, minus Giles. Spike wonders if he was granted an invite.

Buffy is doing a round of shots with Willow in the kitchen while Tara watches. Dawn is slowly edging herself out of a conversation with Anya, her hands wringing behind her back.

Spike would think about rescuing her, but he does owe Buffy a story.

The festivities have transitioned from shots to stirring up mixed drinks by the time Spike makes his way over. Buffy is rooting through Xander's fridge, her shoulder blades shifting as she scavenges.

"Ooh, orange juice," she says, probably to Willow. "Ew, with pulp."

"We could make mimosas!" Willow suggests.

"I think those are illegal if it's not brunch time," Tara says.

Buffy hums. "Diet Coke?"

"I've got tequila, if it helps," Spike offers.

"Xander doesn't have limes," Buffy says.

"Hey, Spike," Tara says. "I like your sweater."

Spike blinks at her. "Thanks."

"Tequila and Diet Coke?" Buffy muses. "Vodka and Diet Coke."

"We don't have any rum," Willow tells Spike.

"I think illegal nighttime mimosas is the way to go," Buffy decides. "Diet Coke's got that grody after taste."

Spike cranes his neck. "Pass me a beer, love?"

"Get your own," Buffy says, ignoring the fact that she's making it physically impossible for him to do that. Or she's blocking him on purpose, which would track.

Spike opens up the tequila instead and, because he can, steals her shot glass.

Buffy sets the orange juice on the counter and shuts the fridge with her hip. She grabs two red Solo cups from an open package on the counter, hesitates, then asks Tara, "Did you want one?"

"Oh, I might just get some wine later," Tara says, "but thanks."

Buffy shrugs and pours a sizeable amount of vodka into her cup.

"Hot and heavy outta the get, eh, Slayer?" Spike taunts, squeezing between her and the fridge when he opens the door. She plants her feet and jostles him back; he smirks toothily.

"It's my night off," she says, a pout evident in her voice. 

Spike frowns at the refrigerator. "Why's there no beer?" He glances at Buffy accusingly. "Why didn't you tell me there wasn't beer?"

Buffy shrugs unrepentantly. "I said get your own. I didn't say where."

"Xander doesn't drink," Willow explains. "We kinda have to bring in our own booze."

Spike shuts the fridge with a disgruntled noise. "Alright, bloody mimosa it is."

"No, see, it's a Bloody _Mary,"_ Buffy says. "You know, for bru—okay, okay, take your stupid cup."

Spike smiles as soon as she looks away.

"Anyway, Slayer," he says, pouring himself four fingers of vodka. "You want my news or not?"

Buffy is stirring her mimosa with one finger. "Yeah, sure."

Willow hands Spike the orange juice. He adds a splash to his cup out of obligation, swirling it around half-heartedly, and leaves it on the counter to be someone else's problem.

Tara and Willow leave the kitchen to rejoin the party, but Buffy just leans up against the counter and sips her drink. It's all open, anyway; Spike can see that Giles arrived at some point, and Dawn is talking with Xander instead of Anya.

"So what's up?" Buffy prompts.

Spike leans back against the fridge, mirroring her posture. "Remember that Warren bloke who made those robots?"

"Oh my _god,_ Spike." Buffy recoils from him, her face twisting up. "If you tell me—"

"What? No, of course not!" Spike puts his hands up in appeasement. "Bloody well learned my lesson the first time, Slayer."

Buffy narrows her eyes. "Really?"

"Cross my heart, except something I actually care about," Spike tells her. He works his jaw in hesitation, glancing out over the room. "Besides, she was never…"

"I can think of about a million ways you _don't_ wanna finish that sentence."

"You," says Spike. He looks at her, feeling bloody foolish and his dead body too warm in his jumper. "I'd take this over that fucking robot any day, Buffy."

Buffy's cheeks are already painted pink with makeup; he can sense the blood rushing to them anyway. 

"This?" she asks. "Even without—"

Spike inclines his head, mostly because he can't bear to say any more of it out loud.

Buffy looks away, her nostrils flaring for a moment, and brings her cup to her lips. "So what's anything gotta do with that creep?"

"Caught him and two buddies playing commando in the graveyard. It'd almost be funny if they weren't probably gonna end up dead." Spike snorts into his drink. "Who am I kidding—still funny."

"Commando?" Buffy repeats. "You don't think the Initiative—"

"Not hardly, to yours truly's great relief," Spike says. "Nah, they had some fancy tech but none of the being good at their jobs. I think I recognized one of the other two—real short bloke, brown hair? Smelled like he had some magic."

Buffy makes her standard grumpy noise. "Ugh, _Jonathan?_ How many times do I gotta give that guy a talking-to?"

Spike shrugs. "Third one was some blonde kid. Didn't get a name."

"What kinda tech did they have?" Buffy asks. "Did they look like they were hunting or something?"

"They weren't interested in me, if they were." Spike tilts his head. "They were scared of me—thought I was cool. Which is something more of you people could stand to remember, actually."

Buffy snorts and plucks at his jumper. "You're wearing a turtleneck, Spike—it's, like, the fluffy bunny of shirts."

"Hey, now!" Spike protests, looking at her in offense. "One man's fluffy bunny is another—well, is Anya's fluffy bunny."

Buffy hums skeptically and sips her mimosa. "So I've got three nerd-brained idiots who are gonna get themselves or someone else killed, playing with toys. Glamorous."

"It's an evil like no other," Spike says solemnly, "but with the power of friendship, surely we can—"

"Hey!" Anya shouts. "Stop talking about work and come in here! It's time for our announcement."

"Get ready to act surprised," Spike mutters.

Buffy glances at him knowingly and follows him around the kitchen island into the living room, resuming her pose of leaning against the counter.

Spike hops onto the island instead, swinging his legs slightly as he sits. 

"Okay, everyone, thank you for coming," Anya says once Spike and Buffy are suitably integrated into the group. "Xander and I have something important to say."

"Oh my god," Willow whispers to Tara, too quietly for anyone else but Spike to hear. "Is she pregnant?"

Spike hides his face behind his cup.

Xander wraps his arm around Anya's waist and announces, "Me and Anya are engaged!"

Buffy gasps melodramatically, which Spike will make fun of her for later. Willow reacts in brief, visceral horror like she would've preferred the bun in the oven, Giles' face goes incredibly British, and Dawn hides hers behind both hands.

She's the first to break the silence, though—she jumps up and down, clapping her hands, and asks, "Wait, you're really getting married?"

"Well, yes," Anya says. "That is what—"

And then everyone starts talking at once.

Spike watches Buffy watch them—the hugging, Anya running off to grab her ring from the bedroom and then being wrapped in Xander's arms. He watches the way her eyes gloss over, the way her plastic cup crunches in her hand.

"You alright there, love?" he murmurs.

Buffy is still staring at her friends. "Don't ask me that here."

He's got nothing else to say.

~*~

Spike escapes the perils of an impending group hug by fleeing for the kitchen. He makes himself look busy by adding more orange juice to his vodka, glancing behind him over the room as the touching continues and Willow summons decorations with a flick of her wrist.

Buffy appears beside him, either for the same pretense or because—yeah, no, her cup is somehow actually empty. 

"Gimme," she says, and leans all the way across him to snatch the rapidly dwindling vodka off the counter.

"Pretty sure there's nothing I could do to stop you," says Spike.

"I was right," Buffy says primly, finishing off her pour with a smug flick of her wrist. "Willow's _totally_ wigging. She's, like, majorly overcompensating with the decorating thing, it's classic."

Spike says, "Whereas your drinking of all the vodka is a genuine expression of merriment, then?"

"The merriest!" Buffy says manically. _"And_ —and I can't believe I'm saying this—you were right too."

"Well, yeah, probably." Spike pours the last of the orange juice into Buffy's cup. "But what about?"

Buffy tilts her head in the direction of Willow and Tara, who by all appearances are having a poorly-concealed lovers' spat in the corner. "Tara said something to her after she tried to dress everyone up in magic party clothes."

"She what?" Spike asks.

Buffy wrinkles her nose. "Apparently for, like, a tenth of a second Giles was covered in beetles?"

"Damn," says Spike. "I miss all the fun."

Buffy purses her lips around a smile.

Speaking of the ponce, Giles joins them in the kitchen.

"While I admire the two of you for your resourcefulness," he says, gesturing at their general personhood, "if the rest of us have to be reacting to this dreadful mess, so do you."

Spike's pretty sure none of them are in here for the same reason, but he also doesn't care enough to point that out.

Buffy says, "Spike saw something weird in the graveyard tonight."

"Was it that jumper?" Giles asks.

Spike flips him the bird.

"Maybe we should go patrol," Buffy hedges. "It sounded pretty serious, didn't it, Spike?"

"Oh, yeah," Spike agrees. "It's a right mess out there."

Giles' answer is interrupted by Xander joining them in the kitchen.

"Hey, gang," he says, his voice sounding a little high-pitched as he squeezes between Buffy and Spike against the counter. "This seat taken?"

"You too, huh?" Buffy asks drily.

"Everyone has _questions,"_ Xander says desperately. "If one more person asks me a question I'm gonna walk into the night."

"Which direction, do you think?" asks Spike.

Buffy side-eyes him, then elbows Xander in the ribs. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Mostly I wanna put a bunch of carbs in my mouth," Xander says. "And possibly even my stomach."

"Hm," Buffy says thoughtfully. "I think we can accomplish that."

Xander says, "You'd think that, wouldn't you? But that would mean having food in my own house."

Spike knows how to grab an opportunity when he sees one.

"I'll pop over to the shop for you if you want," he offers. "I mean, if you give me money that is."

Xander narrows his eyes. "Why would you do that?"

"Well," says Spike, "I don't care very much about being here."

Xander shrugs and pulls out his wallet.

Spike glances casually at Buffy. "You in, Slayer?"

"Sure!" Buffy says—too quickly, she realizes, because she laughs nervously and amends, "I mean, not 'cause _I_ don't wanna be here, 'cause I so totally do, but you know me, I can't resist a good walk. My legs get all frowny if I don't get the miles in."

Giles glances at the ceiling and mutters, "Unbelievable."

Xander hands Buffy the cash instead of Spike and reassures her, "Believe me, if I could leave this engagement party and still be engaged afterwards, I would."

Buffy tucks the cash into her clutch, glances at Spike, and nods towards the door. He obliges, leaving his cup on top of the fridge for safe-keeping. He locks eyes with Anya—who he should probably actually talk to later—on the way out, and mouths _we'll be back_ when she frowns at him.

Then Buffy opens the front door to reveal a woman standing on the other side.

She's got one fist up like she was about to knock and curly brown hair, and one of those faces that looks—

 _"William?"_ she asks incredulously, and it's the voice that does it for him.

Spike gapes like a fish, stammering ineffectually as he tries to form Cecily's name.

Buffy repeats, "William?" in a tone that sounds vaguely accusatory, but Spike's not sure to who.

"Halfrek!" Anya shouts from inside the apartment. "You made it!"

Cecily's attention snaps over Spike's shoulder and her voice brightens significantly—her accent seems to morph, or maybe he was just hearing the shape of his old name.

"Anyanka!" she exclaims, shoving her way between Buffy and Spike to get inside. "Look at you! How long's it been?"

Anya waves everyone over with bursting enthusiasm. "Buffy, Spike, forget the snacks! Come meet my friend."

Buffy shoots Spike a look with her mouth scrunched up in a way that says, _somehow this is your fault,_ and shuts the door with her heel.

Spike raises his eyebrows in a clear, _don't blame me_ retort and saunters over to meet his fate.

~*~

So Cecily is really Halfrek, and she's a thousand year-old vengeance demon. Turns out Spike has a bit of a thing for older women, present love of his unlife excluded. He can cope with this information.

"You're out of vodka," he tells Anya. "And tequila."

She makes a face at him.

Ceci—Halfrek clears her throat from behind him. He turns to her and—despite himself, despite all the years—still finds that his breath catches in his throat.

Or that it would, he figures.

"So," she says.

"Uh," Spike says. "Yeah."

Halfrek asks, "Were you…?"

"Oh, no. Nah." Spike laughs. Why is he laughing? God, he's fucking pathetic. "It's a funny story, actually." It isn't. "I actually turned the last night we spoke."

"Oh," says Halfrek. "How… poetic."

It stings. Did she mean for it to? He thinks he understands a little better now, the way she rejected him, except that he doesn't at all. His fragile, mortal life in the face of the scope of her existence.

And now here he is, all dressed up and trying to crawl back into human skin for the sake of a Slayer, having gone so far beyond the thing he loves that he's wound up beneath it again.

"You've been well, then?" he asks her, surprising himself with how genuinely he'd like to know the answer. If he saw Dru these days he might try to kill her again, or else grovel at her feet, but the century and change has softened the edges on this love.

Halfrek looks as surprised as he is. "Yeah, I guess."

She doesn't ask after him, but that's alright. He'd thought he'd known her, back then, that they were kindred spirits of some kind—but he never really did. Not like he knew Dru, not like he's learning Buffy. 

"Who were you in town for?" he asks. "Back in the day, I mean."

"Oh, I can't even remember," she answers. "They blur together sometimes—you know how it is. I think I turned them into living dolls. I did a lot of living dolls back then."

"Huh," says Spike. "That's bloody brilliant."

Anya says, "Hallie's a creative genius. Oh, tell Spike about that one we did together in Rome."

"Oh, no, you tell it better, dear," Halfrek insists.

"Okay, okay, so there was this guy who owned this restaurant right?" Anya explains, gesturing excitedly. "Well, it was really more of a cafe. That's relevant because you should know they had an old-timey panini press…"

~*~

Spike talks with Anya and Halfrek for a while, then ducks into the bathroom to sneak a cigarette with his upper body leaning out the window, smoke puffing into the late-night air. He thinks the party'll wind down soon, or at the least Giles will beg off and Buffy will use Dawn to beg off too. 

He doesn't turn around when he hears footsteps; he knows who it is by the sound.

"I," Buffy says slowly, in that _I am drunk and everything I say is very important_ way, "have a dilemma."

Spike glances over his shoulder, taking the opportunity to ash his cigarette. "Is it whether to try Red's magic chips and dip? 'Cause I dunno if it's a vamp thing, but there's a weird aftertaste."

Buffy wrinkles up her nose. "Toothpaste."

"Huh. Tasted like dirt to me," says Spike.

Buffy tilts her head. "Do you brush your teeth?"

"Uh," says Spike.

"Wow," Buffy says, more to herself than anything. She sits down on the edge of the bathtub. "I _never_ would've asked Angel that—I would've _died."_

Spike decides to take that as a compliment.

"Vampire breath doesn't smell," he says defensively, looking back out the window to take another drag.

"How do you know?" Buffy asks.

Spike breathes out a puff of smoke. "'Cause it's a creature of the night thing or whatever."

"Hmm," Buffy says skeptically.

"Well, you're the Slayer," Spike says, dropping his cigarette butt to the sidewalk below and turning to face her. "You've gotten up close and personal with plenty of us. Did Angel's breath smell when you were snogging him?"

"Maybe Angel brushed his teeth," says Buffy.

Spike crosses his arms over his chest. "So you're trying to tell me my breath smells, is that it?"

Buffy wrinkles her nose. "Why would I know how your breath smells?"

Spike makes a frustrated sound.

"Want me to check?" Buffy offers brightly, tapping her nails against the tub. "Here, breathe on me."

"What? N-no!" Spike splutters indignantly.

Buffy hops to her feet and skips over to him, her hands clasped playfully behind her back. Ironically, he can smell the vodka on her. "Spike, it's nothing to be ashamed of—we've all done the breath test."

"The wh—oh, for the love of God!" Spike leans back and nearly tips out the open window. "If your dilemma was whether or not tonight's the night you stake me, please just have at it."

Buffy rocks back on her heels, blinking innocently. She appears to think it over, then decides, "Nah, I don't have one on me."

Spike pulls the window shut.

Buffy waltzes back over to the tub and, instead of sitting on the edge, climbs fully inside it and kicks her feet up near the faucet. "Anyway, the dilemma is I've got the _juiciest_ thing to tell you, but what the hell is up with you and that woman, and I can't decide who should go first."

Spike is distracted by the line of Buffy's legs, a few days unshaven and with the faintest hint of golden hair prickling in the light, stretched out in the bathtub. He pictures her, briefly, up to her chin in a bubble bath, tipping her face up to give him a kiss when he brings her a glass of wine.

God, he used to fantasize about killing her. 

"I guess I'll go first!" Buffy says. "I'm pretty sure Xander's totally losing it over the whole wedding thing. Like, major quarter-life crisis status."

Spike sits down on the edge of the tub, turning to face her. He leans back against the tile and perches his feet near her hip. "Maybe this isn't the venue, pet? Seeing as you're in his tub and all."

Buffy cranes her neck to glance into the living room. "Nah, no one's paying attention. I mean, I totally called it when you told me in the first place—this whole thing's an apocalypse wiggins."

Spike snorts. "Then he's a wanker."

"What?" Buffy asks.

"Anya's a—what d'you call it? She's a catch," Spike says. "She's smart, funny—she's _hot,_ and Harris is regretting locking it down?"

Buffy jabs her heel at him, pouting. "You said marriage was human and stupid."

"Well, yeah," says Spike. "But so's Xander, so you'd think it'd work out. If anyone should be coming to their senses 'round here, it's Anya who's too good for the whole thing."

Buffy gasps conspiratorially and kicks at him again. _"Spike,_ do you have a crush on Anya?"

Spike scoffs dismissively and reminds her, "My dance card's a little full, love."

"With Anya's demon friend," Buffy says knowingly.

Spike frowns in confusion. What's she trying to pull for, here? She can't honestly think—

"Ah, Buffy, I'm—oh." Giles is standing in the threshold, his coat draped over one arm, taking in the scene with clear fatherly disapproval. "I'm calling it a night. Did you and Dawn… need a ride home?"

"I live in here now," says Buffy. "It's nice."

Giles makes a noise that vaguely translates to _please dear God kill me now._

Spike says, "I can take 'em later, my car's down the block."

Giles frowns skeptically. "Are _you_ sober?"

"Not willingly," Spike answers. "But vamp tolerance is a helluva not-drug."

"... Very well," Giles says. "Buffy, I take it you'll, ah, want the day off training tomorrow, then?"

Buffy sticks out her bottom lip. "It's just one day, Giles."

"Yes, well," Giles says airily, taking his glasses off to clean them in a fuss, "that does technically remain true, no matter how many times you say it."

"I _knew_ you'd understand," Buffy says, so cheerily that it's equally likely she's sincerely missed the subtext or is being intentionally passive-aggressive back. "See you on Monday?"

Giles says, "Today is Thursday."

Buffy sits up in the tub with a grunt. "I'll still patrol this weekend, don't worry—but you know how quiet it's been all summer."

Except for that brutally-avoided apocalypse down the coast.

"Yes, well, I suppose I can't stop you." Giles puts his glasses back on. "Enjoy the rest of your night, doing… whatever this is."

"Drive safe," Buffy says—quieter, more genuine.

He nods, retreating from the room.

Buffy sighs loudly with her bottom lip jutted out, making a _pffbt_ sound as she slides back down into the tub. 

Spike could take the opportunity to change the subject—avoid getting into the embarrassment of his human life.

"She was going by Cecily when I met her," he says. "Thought she was human at the time."

"Were you?" Buffy asks.

Spike grimaces preemptively. "You remember how I told you I had a girl when I met Dru?"

"Oh," says Buffy.

"Well, it was more like I was one of those poor sods mooning after a girl who wouldn't give me the time of day," Spike says lightly, raising an eyebrow at her. "The more things change, eh?"

Buffy rolls her eyes, scrunching up her mouth to one side before her expression turns thoughtful again. "Did you write about her?"

"I wrote about how I felt," Spike says. "So, yeah, there was a right stretch that was about her, but she's not why I started."

"Is she why you stopped?" Buffy asks.

Spike says, "But anyway, we haven't exactly kept in touch. 'S all history between us."

"Hey," Buffy says, "that's not what I—"

"Buffy! Spike!" Dawn skitters into the bathroom and clutches at Spike's arm, trying to tug him to his feet. "Hurry! We've gotta go right now!"

Spike startles, ready to ask what's wrong, before he realizes that her voice is cracking with laughter.

"Why?" Buffy asks suspiciously, making no move to get up. "What'd you do?"

 _"Rude,"_ says Dawn. She props a hand on her hip. "Anya said anyone who doesn't wanna watch her and Xander doing it has gotta leave now."

Spike looks at Buffy with his eyebrows raised. "I could go in for it if you are."

Buffy says, "You're a pig, Spike," and uses his calf as leverage to haul herself to her feet. "Drive us home?"

"Can I sit in the front seat?" Dawn asks eagerly.

Spike helps Buffy out of the tub; she stumbles into him before she gets her balance, then pushes him off indignantly.

"No," she says. "Spike drives like a psycho."

"At least I know how," Spike shoots back. He cracks his neck as he stands up, then says, "Alright, let's get you out of here before you're scarred for life, little bit."

 _"So_ too late for that," Dawn says, rolling her eyes. "This one time, Buffy and Riley forgot to lock the door and—"

Buffy lunges for her.

~*~

Spike pulls up at the Summers house and puts the car in park with the engine running, glancing at the radio clock. It's a little after midnight, which is early for him and Buffy but supposedly late for Dawn.

He glances at her in the rear view mirror—not that she can see him doing it—and asks, "You hungry, little bit?"

"Yeah." Dawn wrinkles her nose exactly like her sister. "Willow's salsa tasted like gasoline."

Spike shuts off the engine. "I'll make you something."

"I can do it!" Buffy protests, fumbling to unbuckle her seatbelt and then stumbling out of the car. She looks in worse shape than she did when they left—she staggers and braces herself against the door. "Woo! Being all vertical is _so_ overrated."

"Oh my god," Dawn says. "If Mom was around, you'd be in soo much trouble."

Spike gets out of the car. He pockets his keys and walks around to Buffy's side, offering her his arm. "C'mon, Slayer, group effort now."

Buffy glares at him and says, "Don't be all talk-down-y to me." She prods his chest with a finger and marches forward on her own. "I could still kick your ass."

She trips over the curb; Spike catches her by the elbow.

"I believe you," he placates fondly. "And that still does it for me—"

"Ew!" shouts Dawn, who's unlocking the front door.

"But let's not have pride get in the way of making it inside, yeah?"

Buffy shoves him into the hedges.

Dawn cackles.

Spike sighs and follows them inside, plucking leaves out of his jumper in a huff.

"I'm gonna go not be wearing clothes anymore," Buffy announces, slipping out of her heels and vanishing up the stairs.

Spike stares after her, relishing that image, before Dawn steers him into the kitchen. "Hello? Starving teenager?"

"Yeah, yeah." Spike drops a leaf onto her head. "What do you think, bagel bites?"

"Oh my god, totally." Dawn switches the oven on while Spike grabs the box from the freezer. "Ooh, can we make hot chocolate too? Are you gonna stay the night?"

"Nah," Spike says. "Plenty of time for me to run home before sun-up. We can do the chocolate though—pass me the kettle."

Dawn fake-whispers, "I think you could stay the night anyway."

Spike fills the electric kettle in the sink with a half-smile. "Yeah? You're the head of the household now, are you?"

"Psh, totally." Dawn pulls two mugs down from the cabinet. "I'm like, the brains of the operation and stuff. Buffy's just the figurehead, y'know, like how some countries still have monarchies but it's mostly for show and there's this whole other government going on?"

"Sure," says Spike, who has not paid attention to how the government works since his entire life.

Dawn hesitates with a third mug in her hand. "Do you think Buffy wants hot chocolate?"

There's a timely thud from upstairs, followed by an audible, _"Ugh!"_

"... I'll ask," says Spike.

He heads up the stairs and knocks on Buffy's door, which is ajar—then steps inside when he realizes she's still fully clothed.

Buffy is frowning at herself in the mirror, twisting around to try and get a look at the back of her dress.

"What is it?" she asks the place his reflection should be.

"Uh, need some help there?" Spike asks. "And d'you want cocoa and if so with the little marshmallows or no?"

"Life is meaningless and stupid," says Buffy.

"... Right." Spike sits down on the edge of the bed. "That's a no on the little marshmallows, then?"

Buffy pouts in the mirror. "I broke the zipper and now I'm stuck and I just got this dress and it's _stupid."_

Spike says, "I'm sure you didn't—" he takes a closer look. "Oh, yeah, that's buggered."

Somehow—courtesy of some combination of Slayer strength and shoddy zipper craftsmanship—Buffy's managed to not rip just the pull-tab but the entire slider off too, which mangled a few rows of teeth along the way. 

Buffy sniffles and rubs at her nose.

"No, alright, we'll fix it," Spike says. He stands up again, reaching tentatively for the back of the dress. "If we can just, uh, pry this off, you can get a new zipper for it."

"What?" Buffy asks, her voice a little watery.

"Uh, yeah, I mean, it's sewn in here, see?" Spike says, even though obviously she can't. "So you get all the stitches ripped out and sew in a new zipper. Been a while since I've done one, but I can show you."

Buffy turns around to look at him. "You can _sew?"_

"Well, yeah," Spike says defensively. "Dru taught me. How else d'you think we kept stuff nice?"

"I didn't think you kept stuff," Buffy says, but she turns around again and offers her back. "I figured you just… stole new stuff whenever."

Spike grips each side of the dress and begins carefully prying the plastic teeth apart. It takes a sodding lot of force, and he's got to watch that the fabric doesn't tear.

"Mostly we did, yeah, but Dru had some dresses she liked that were older'n me." He smiles fondly. "And she liked making clothes for her dolls. I did that for her sometimes."

Buffy's expression is thoughtful in the mirror—maybe a little sad. Hair is starting to slip out of her braids, falling in long wisps around her face. "Did she really dump you 'cause of me?" 

Spike rips the dress a little; Buffy doesn't seem to notice. He'll fix it when he does the rest.

"I mean the first time," she clarifies. "Not the time you kidnapped us and said you'd kill her."

"Where'd you get that from?" he asks.

"That's what you told Willow," she says. "Y'know, when you kidnapped her and Xander? She said you said Dru left you 'cause of our alliance or whatever. Wow, kidnapping's a whole thing for you, huh?"

Spike gets the zipper pried open down to the small of Buffy's back. His eyes trace back up the curve of her spine, the way her muscles shift a little when she realizes he's done, and he can hear Dru's voice clear as day.

"Don't get all in your head about it," he tells her dismissively, turning around as she lets the dress fall to the floor. "Dru leaves me all the time."

Buffy pads over to her dresser and opens one of the drawers. He listens to her rustling through the contents, looking for whatever it is she's planning on wearing, and fights the temptation to steal a glance. He's trying not to, trying to do what she likes. What she wants.

It's what he's always trying, for someone.

Buffy pats him consolingly on the arm, and he glances now—she's dressed in a pajama set that has, bafflingly, different types of sushi all over it, and, God, he's in love with her.

God, it's worth it.

Buffy says, "Little marshmallows sound good."

They make their way back downstairs; Dawn has gotten the bagel bites in the oven in Spike's absence and the electric kettle is almost done heating.

"Ooh, look at you being all self-reliant," Buffy tells Dawn.

Spike fills a glass of water in the sink and nudges it against Buffy's hand; she makes a face at him, but takes it.

"Yeah, it's almost like I'm almost fifteen," Dawn snarks. Then, brightly, "Can we watch _Emperor's New Groove_ again?"

 _"Again?"_ Buffy asks, but she does the eye roll she does when she's only pretending to be miffed. "Yeah, okay."

Dawn immediately abandons her teenager responsibilities to set up the VCR. Buffy shoots Spike an amused look and leans back against the island.

Spike pours their cocoa and gets the bagel bites out of the oven, feeling her eyes on him with a kind of prickling heat that's never really stopped making him feel like a prey animal. She's drunk, balancing on the knife's edge of maudlin, and still half-looking at him like he looks at nearly everything else.

"Hurry up or I'm gonna start without you!" Dawn shouts.

"Oh, no," Buffy says loudly. "How will I know what's happening in the movie I've seen ten times?"

She takes a mug from Spike, though, walking carefully so she doesn't spill it, and heads into the living room.

Spike follows with the rest of the food.

~*~

"You know, Yzma kinda reminds me of you, Spike," Dawn says partway through the movie.

Buffy cackles and smacks Spike hard on the ribs. "Oh my _god,_ you're so right!"

"Ow! What?" Spike rubs at the sore spot on his side. Drunk Buffy isn't particularly interested in watching her own strength.

"Y'know," Buffy tells him, head lolling to the side to fix him with a shit-eating grin. "'Cause she's trying _so_ hard to be evil and she's really bad at it?"

Spike crosses his arms over his chest. "I wasn't that bad at being evil!"

Dawn squawks, "'Pull the lever, Kronk!'"

Buffy laughs so hard she kicks her feet out, one hand covering her mouth and the other hitting Spike repeatedly on the thigh. "Oh my god, and Kronk is _totally_ Harmony!"

"That's not—" Spike cuts off in a huff. He shoves Buffy away, not hard enough to activate the chip, and points out, "That makes you the bloody llama, you know."

"I'm not a _llama!"_ Buffy sticks her bottom lip out in a pout, then turns to Dawn. "What animal would I turn into?"

"A buffalo," Dawn says automatically.

Spike snickers.

Buffy says, "You're the _worst!_ You'd be a gross little—little beetle thing!" and lunges across the couch.

"Woah, now," Spike says, holding her back with an arm hastily wrapped around her waist. "No bruising the nibblet, Slayer."

Buffy sighs melodramatically and flops back against the couch, out of Spike's hold.

Dawn, who had scrambled all the way to the far armrest, sticks her tongue out at Buffy and edges closer to the middle again.

"Buffalo," Buffy mutters to herself. She props her chin up on her knees and focuses on the movie again. "I'd be a pretty buffalo."

Spike turns to the dregs of his hot chocolate before he says something stupid back, like agree with her.

~*~

Dawn sends herself to sleep after the movie ends, but Buffy switches the telly over to _Cheers_ reruns, and she doesn't give Spike the look she gives him when she wants him to leave, so he stays and watches too.

She falls asleep halfway through the first episode.

Spike lets her rest for a little while, smiling fondly over the low hum of the television—her brow stays a little furrowed, even like this, but she's breathing softly and sometimes her lips twitch towards contentment. 

He could probably carry her upstairs without waking her, but he's not sure she'd appreciate the gesture.

Spike tugs her hair free from its braids, allowing it to fall loose in soft waves over her face; the cheerful scent of her shampoo tickles his nose. Then he nudges her gently and murmurs, "C'mon, Slayer, time for bed."

Buffy grumbles and yawns, stretching broadly and smushing her hand against Spike's face in the process. She blinks her eyes open as her hand drifts down, fingers catching in the high collar of his turtleneck.

Her cheek is resting on the back of the couch. She stares at the jumper with the brand of hyperfocus reserved for people too in their cups, running her thumb thoughtfully over the cable knitting, and declares, "Pretty sweater."

Spike furrows his eyebrows softly.

Buffy lifts a finger and taps Spike on the tip of his nose. "Pretty face."

A laugh track plays on the TV. Spike parts his lips in a kind of yearning, spreading up from the cavern of his chest, but there's no sound his throat could make, no shape his mouth could create to give it form.

Buffy's hand falls away. She slips off the couch and onto her feet in a fluid motion of reflex, then stumbles into the coffee table with a giggle. 

Spike watches her make her way up the stairs, listens for the sound of her door clicking shut with his eyes closed. He gathers up the mugs, the empty plates of bagel bite crumbs, and rinses them all in the sink when he finds the dishwasher still full.

If he listens even closer, he can hear two pairs of lungs upstairs. She's awake, from the rhythm of it, but he doesn't know why. 

Spike locks the front door behind himself when he leaves.

~*~

He touches himself that night, of course. Thinks about her leaning in with that hand still curled in his jumper, pressing her lips to the corner of his jaw and down his neck. Thinks about carrying her to bed and putting his mouth between her thighs, slipping his tongue into her cunt and giving it to her so gently she could fall asleep like that, just letting him love her.

He comes with his jaw clenched, breathing hard and uselessly, and falls asleep with a pillow clutched in his arms.

~*~

The next evening, Spike walks to the nearest payphone after sundown and rings the house.

"House of Gummy Bears, Head Bear speaking!"

Spike smirks. "Hey, nibblet, it's me. Big Sis up yet?"

"She started making dying hippo noises like two or three hours ago," Dawn tells him. "Then she crawled onto the couch and made a blanket burrito and she's been like that ever since."

"Thought so." Spike twirls the phone cord around his finger. "Tell her I'll patrol tonight, will you?"

Dawn shouts, "Buffy!" then, quieter after a pause. "Sorry. Spike says he'll patrol tonight." Another pause. "I think that was hippo for 'thank you.'"

Spike snorts and says, "Make sure she drinks water, alright?"

"Whatever," says Dawn.

"You need anything?"

"Nah, I'm gonna go over to Janice's," Dawn says. "We're gonna pig out on brownies and watch dumb romcoms."

Spike tells her, "Sounds like a night for the ages."

"Yeah. Anyway, I should get off the line 'cause she said she's gonna call when she's home from the mall."

"Yeah, yeah, see ya, bit."

Spike hangs up the phone and rolls his neck. It'll be good to get a little violence in; it's been a while.

~*~

The moon's almost at zenith and Spike is bored out of his fucking mind. It's been slow going—just one vamp that didn't even put up a fight—and he's thinking about just turning in and spending the rest of the night with a trashy romance novel when he sees the shine of flashlights up ahead that are clearly someone begging _oh, please, creatures of the night, please come eat me._

Spike sighs and makes his way over to give whoever it is a good scaring off—hoping it's not those spymaster wannabes from yesterday—when he realizes that all that giggling sounds a little too familiar.

"Oi!" Spike shouts. "Dawn?"

 _"Shit,"_ she hisses, and the flashlights go off.

Spike, obviously, can still see them both. He marches over, thinking to himself that he's well past good and done with idiot humans trying to get themselves killed in his backyard, and stands in front of her and her little friend until the lights come back on.

"What're you doing out here?" he demands. "You should bloody well know better."

Dawn clenches her jaw and doesn't say anything, but the other girl with her—Janice, he figures—gives him an obvious once-over with her tongue prodding the inside of her cheek.

"Dawn, who's this?" she asks.

"He's just some guy my sister knows," Dawn says, grabbing Janice by the wrist. "C'mon, we don't gotta talk to him."

"Some _guy?"_ Spike repeats indignantly. He steps to the side to block their path. "Try again, bite-sized."

Dawn glares at him defiantly for a long moment, then, when he doesn't budge a muscle, turns to begging with puppydog eyes instead. "Please don't tell Buffy!"

She looks suitably nervous about it.

"Depends," he says. "Where do you think you're headed?"

Dawn groans and stomps her foot. "We were just gonna meet some people at the park!"

"But…?" Spike prompts.

Dawn mumbles, "We'll go back home."

"I'll walk you," Spike offers cheerfully. He gestures for them to twirl back around the way they came, which they do. "Lovely weather for a little stroll, innit?"

"Why are all your sister's friends so _weird?"_ Janice complains in a whisper.

Dawn tells her, "You've got _no_ idea."

Spike reaches into his coat pocket for a cigarette and pretends not to hear them, keeping an eye on their surroundings as they walk. Everything stays quiet until they get back to Janice's house, where Spike stops Dawn before she climbs back through the window they snuck out of earlier.

"Look, nibblet," he tells her, flicking the cigarette stub to the ground and crushing it under his boot. "I don't give a rat's arse about a bit of teenage mischief, but this is Sunnydale. You're a smart girl—you do get why trouncing through a graveyard after dark's a bad idea, right?"

"Whatever," she grumbles. "Just don't tell Buffy."

Spike raises an eyebrow. "Don't give me a reason to. I catch you out here again, you don't get another freebie."

"Ugh." Dawn crosses her arms. "You used to be cool."

"Your words cut like a knife," Spike deadpans. "Get inside."

She does what he says, at least—for now.

~*~

Spike thinks about telling Buffy anyway. He'd tell her most secrets, from most people, but he doesn't think tattling would help any. He'll keep an eye on the bite-sized one.

~*~

"You've done some horrible things, Slayer, but I never thought you'd stoop this low."

"You knew this day would come, Spike. I always warned you."

"Well, yeah, but I never thought you'd go through with it." Spike gestures broadly at her. "Especially not like this."

Buffy crosses her arms with such annoyance that the stupid cow-thing that's on her hat's ears flop. "What's wrong with it?"

Some other fast food employee-slash-denizen walks by and scolds, "Buffy, no talking with your friends at the register. There are customers waiting!"

Spike's positive there's no one behind him.

"Oh, he is _so_ not my friend!" Buffy says hastily. "He was just about to order, weren't you, _sir?"_

The manager walks away skeptically.

Once he's out of earshot, Spike says, "You're better than this."

"There's nothing wrong with this job!" Buffy insists. "Someone's gotta make the… cow… chicken… burgers."

"Yeah, yeah, there's no small jobs," Spike parrots impatiently. "But you've already got a job, and seeing as that job is 'make sure there's a world for all the other jobs to live in,' I think maybe we can agree size does matter just this once."

"Funny," Buffy says brightly, smiling from ear-to-ear as the bell jingles behind him. "Usually jobs pay you, and since that other one doesn't—hi, welcome to Doublemeat Palace!" 

Spike says, "Buffy, I told you if you need money—"

"And I told you I don't want your help." Buffy's smile is still frozen in place. "Now buy something or get out."

The manager, who doesn't smell like a vamp but apparently has the hearing of one, rushes back to the register in customer service-flavored distress.

"Buffy! We don't talk to customers that way."

"Oh, no!" Buffy says hurriedly. She laughs nervously, shooting Spike a look as she gestures between them. "I don't normally talk to people that way, I promise, it's just that I know him and it's kinda how we banter, you know, how friends do? It's a friend thing, right, Spike?"

"I've never seen this woman before in my life," says Spike.

Buffy's expression says, _I'm staking you as soon as I get off work,_ but the intimidation factor is toned down significantly by the hat. Mostly Spike wants to kiss her earlobe where it's peeking out from under her hair.

The manager stares at Spike for a long, bland moment before he turns back to Buffy. "We don't have friends when we're on the clock at Doublemeat. We treat all our customers the same."

"Right," Buffy says. "Um, sorry about that."

The bell rings again—this time it's the manager's face that brightens. "Mrs. Kowalski! Don't you look lovely today! I can help you over here."

The look Buffy gives the manager is more threatening.

Spike raises an eyebrow at her pointedly.

"Will you please just order something?" she tells him.

Spike sighs and glances up at the menu. "Yeah, alright. What keeps best—the nuggets, do you think?"

"Probably. Plus, I know how to punch those in." Buffy wriggles her fingers with manic enthusiasm. "Do you wanna make that a combo?"

"Nah, just the twenty-pack." Spike pulls out his wallet. "And whatever that special dipping sauce is."

Buffy rings him up and shoos him out of the way to help the next customer. He leans against the back wall while he waits for his food, watching her smile so wide it hurts his jaw just to look at. She looks cute in the stupid uniform, even. 

The front door swings open yet again and the entire Scooby gang bustles through.

"Buffster!" Xander declares. "You're a working woman now!"

Buffy's smile turns genuine. "Aww, you guys! You didn't have to come."

Spike snorts, shoving a hand into his pocket. Not like he had to be here either, but no one gave him a warm welcome.

Tara peels away from the group and comes to stand next to him, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. "Um, hi."

"Hey," says Spike.

"Are you here for Buffy too, or are you just, like, really into the food?" Tara jokes.

Spike says, "Oh, I'm a huge fan of the Doublemeat. You?"

"Not so much—I'm a vegetarian," Tara says.

"No, yeah, me too," Spike tells her seriously.

She smiles crookedly.

One of the other employees calls out, "Twenty-piece nuggets for Spike!"

Spike cringes at Tara exaggeratedly as he grabs the bag off the counter, then carries it back over and explains, "These, uh, aren't mine, you know—just holding them for a friend."

"That's what they all say," Tara teases back.

Xander joins them in the back and asks, "So, what's the sitch? Are we eating here or to go?"

Tara says, "Well, I'm actually not—"

"Oh, let's do here!" Anya says. "That way we can wave at Buffy while we eat."

Tara glances down at her hands.

"Tara's a vegetarian," Spike says.

"Good for her!" Anya says. "This table looks nice."

"Ah, that means she can't get food here, sweetie," Xander points out. 

Willow walks up to the group, making herself the last to order. "Oh, yeah, they're not so much with the animal friendly here, huh? Sorry, baby, I didn't think about it."

"I-It's okay," Tara says. "I wanna support Buffy—I can eat when we get home."

"Well, let's just stay a little while, maybe," Willow says.

They find a fourtop in view of Buffy's register and pull over an extra chair. Buffy is busy helping a group of customers, but she flicks her eyes over to them and smiles. The Scoobies chat idly while they wait for their food, then all start to dig into the stuff with fervor.

"Spike, buddy," Xander says, gesturing at Spike's unopened bag. "I know you're new at this, but you actually gotta take the food and put it in your mouth to eat it."

"Oh, nah, it's really not mine," Spike says. "Figured I'd take something back for Dawn, since I'm here and all."

Willow says, "Aww, that's sweet!"

Spike shrugs.

"How's Dawnie doing?" Tara asks. "I thought she'd be around more this summer, but she hasn't really."

"Man, it's weird to think she's gonna be in high school," says Xander. He pauses, then gestures with his burger. "And is anyone else still dealing with the fact that she's a ball of energy that almost destroyed the world? Or are we all cool with that now and I'm a dick?"

"She's still just Dawnie," Willow argues.

Xander says, "Well, yeah, but also she's not. It's trippy. I've been tripped."

"It is weird that our memories are all… fake," Tara admits. 

Anya licks the sauce off her fingers and says nonchalantly, "The fabric of the universe gets altered all the time. Most of the time you don't even notice."

"That's not _better,"_ Xander tells her. "You get how that's not better, right?"

"Well, the way the monks did it, they didn't even change any major events!" Anya argues. "It's more like they just added her to things that were already there, but she didn't affect anything that happened."

Willow frowns. "That's even worse. Poor Dawnie."

"But she can change stuff now, right?" Spike asks. "She's flesh and blood an' everything."

"Oh, yes," says Anya.

"Maybe that's why she doesn't come to the Magic Box anymore," Tara ventures. "She wants to be around people who don't know."

Willow picks glumly at her food. "Have we been treating her too differently? I mean, do you think it's us?"

Spike snorts. "She's a fourteen year-old girl who almost got ritually sacrificed four months ago. How well-adjusted do you sods think she's gonna be?"

"Oh," says Willow.

"Well, hey now!" Xander says. "When I was her age I got kidnapped by a giant bug lady who wanted me to fertilize her eggs, and I turned out fine!"

"Oh, and I was almost a child bride for a demon who catfished me on the Internet!" Willow adds eagerly. "And Xander got possessed with a hyena, and Buffy—"

"Okay, so you want the Doublemeat Deluxe except no cheese, lettuce or tomatoes?" Buffy is asking a customer, her voice so cheerful that Spike can hear her vocal cords straining. "But you know that's just a normal Doublemeat, right? And you'd save like a dollar if—no, I'm sorry, one Deluxe it is! Do you want fries with that?"

Anya, Tara, and Spike share a pointed group look.

"Yeah," Spike says drily, "you three are the gold fuckin' standard of mental stability."

"I'm just gonna choose to interpret that non-sarcastically," says Xander.

"Well, speaking of the little bit, think I'll take this back to her now," Spike says, pushing his chair back. "Ta."

The group tells him goodbye and goes back to their conversation; he waves to Buffy on his way out and she gives him a quick nod in acknowledgement before turning back to her latest customer. The slightly warmer air outside prickles at his skin as his body temperature begins to adjust, which is nice. Makes him feel real. 

Walking from Doublemeat Palace to Revello Drive would be a bit of a trek, if you were a normal human—but neither Spike or Buffy are that, and he likes seeing the town this time of night. People still all about, not afraid to be on the streets, politely stepping out of his way if they cross paths on the sidewalk like he's one of them.

Plus, the cut through the graveyard saves time.

When he gets to the house, the door is unlocked and he can hear voices inside. A quick listen tells him it's just a bunch of teenagers who aren't supposed to be there.

He'd almost rather it was a demon. Buffy hates it when he meets Dawn's friends.

Nothing for it, though, seeing as he's also not gonna fuck off without checking up on whatever Dawn's doing without big sis knowing about it—so he wipes his boots on the doormat and strolls casually inside.

Spike's starting to wonder if he should be offended by how often Dawn's immediate reaction to seeing his face these days is, "Oh, shit."

There's a group of five of them—three girls besides Dawn and a boy—all sitting cross-legged on the floor; they've shoved the coffee table against the couch to make room.

"Hey, there, kiddies!" Spike says cheerfully. "How's tricks?"

"What're you _doing_ here?" Dawn demands.

Spike says, "Oh, don't mind me, just dropping off dinner." He wiggles the bag jauntily. "I saw Bu—is that a bleeding _Ouija_ board?"

The other kids look between each other nervously. Spike recognizes Janice, but the others he hasn't seen around.

"So what?" Dawn asks defensively.

"Well, where'd you get it?" Spike demands.

Dawn glares at him. "What's it matter?"

"You know why it matters," Spike says. "Did you get that from the magic shop or sodding Walmart?"

"Um," one of the other girls pipes up. "I found it in my grandma's attic?"

Right. So fifty-fifty on the 'will this group of idiotic teenagers accidentally conjure unspeakable evil?' front. 

Spike sighs and says, "You kids have fun. I'll be upstairs if the light bulbs start to blow."

"That would be so _cool,"_ whispers one of the others.

Spike rolls his eyes. He stops in the kitchen first, trading the chicken nuggets for the pig's blood he keeps stashed in the back of the fridge and heating himself up a mug. He's not dealing with whatever this mess is gonna be on an empty stomach.

He's also not above eavesdropping—not that they're making it a particular chore; Spike's pretty sure even a human could hear them gossiping.

"Dude," asks the boy, "is that, like, your sister's _boyfriend?"_

"No way, he looks way older than her," one of the girls argues.

Janice says, "Buffy's always dating older guys, it's like a whole thing. Didn't she date that college guy when she was in high school?"

Spike snorts.

"They're not dating!" Dawn insists. "He's just around all the time. It's, like, so lame."

"That's so weird. And what's with the outfit? Is he in a band or something?"

"Not even!" says Dawn.

The microwave beeps. 

Spike pops the door open and grabs his mug, staring at the blood gently lapping against the sides. He realizes his jaw is clenched when trying to test the temperature makes his teeth ache.

She's just a kid. He knows that. 

He still needs a minute before he trusts himself to walk up the stairs without saying anything.

Spike hesitates in front of Joyce's door, which is firmly shut. Is she the reason for what's going on downstairs?

No—Dawn would've gone to the Magic Box for that; she would've made sure the board really worked. Once upon a time, she would've asked Spike for help.

He turns away and sequesters himself in Buffy's room. She's got some of her books from last semester on her desk still, so at least he'll have something to keep him busy.

Spike looks through the selection, sipping on the mug in his other hand. It's been a while since he's read _Hunchback—_ that'll do. He kicks off his boots before curling up on the bed with it.

~*~

A few hours later, Spike's distracted by the sound of the front door opening. He counts the sets of footsteps—sounds like everyone leaves—and then goes back to his book.

Dawn appears in the doorway.

"Contact any ghosties?" Spike asks idly. "Maybe some ghouls?"

"It didn't even work," Dawn says. "So you can go now or whatever."

Spike shrugs and turns the page. "Just got to the good part—think I'll stick around."

Dawn snorts. "Right, so you can just happen to be here when Buffy gets home."

Spike looks up from his book, slipping his thumb between the pages to hold his place, and tells her, "I thought I'd keep you company, actually."

"I'm good." Dawn shifts her weight. "Thanks for not snitching."

"Mm, don't think I agreed to that, now, did I?" Spike says.

Dawn's eyes widen to the size of moons. "That is _so_ not fair! What's your damage?"

"I'm worried about you, nibblet."

"No you're not!" she retorts. "You used to help me when I broke the rules—now you just run and tell Buffy everything 'cause you don't want her to get mad at you."

Spike tosses the book aside completely, furrowing his eyebrows at her. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and says, "Dawn, what's going on with you?"

"What?" Dawn's voice kicks to a higher pitch. "Nothing! What're you even talking about?"

"I helped you before 'cause I understood what you were doing, love," Spike says, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice. "There's plenty of good reasons to break the rules—what's yours now? 'Cause from where I'm standing, you're just trying to get yourself killed."

Dawn's face is going red with anger. She says, "Get out."

Spike frowns. "Dawnie—"

"Get out!" she shouts. "Get out or I'll tell Buffy you were being creepy in her room again get _out!"_

Spike blinks at her woundedly. She stares back, her hands curled into fists and her nostrils flaring, and neither of them looks away the whole time he puts his boots back on and laces them up.

~*~

Spike chain-smokes behind the palm tree until he can hear Buffy coming down the block. 

He leaves before she turns the corner.

~*~

"It just ain't right, is what I'm saying," Spike is saying. He gestures with his empty shot glass. "They deserve better."

"Sure," Willy agrees nervously. "The Slayer's a nice girl. Bad for business, but a nice girl."

Spike slides his glass across the bar and says, "Hit me again. It's just—she's working this job that's no good, kid sister's going off the rails and not exactly oversharing about it—what's a bloke s'pposed to do?"

"I'm… pretty sure nothing," says Willy.

"I tell her I can get her money," Spike says. "She doesn't want my money—on account of it's all either her money or stolen, but still, she's so damn picky. Got all these morals. I mean, that's what I like about her."

Willy edges his way down the counter. "You could get a job?"

"Psh." Spike looks down at himself. "Who's gonna hire a vampire?"

Willy hands a Muskfist demon a glass of what smells like alligator bile.

"Hey," Spike says, pointing a finger half-accusingly. "You'd hire a vampire."

"Oh, well, Willy's _is_ an equal opportunity employer," Willy says, laughing nervously as he pours Spike his fresh shot of blood. "But I don't have any room on the staff. I kinda get less customers these days, what with the Slayer being so good at her job—you know, the job you wanna help her do even better?"

Spike hums thoughtfully.

Just then, a fresh-faced vamp runs in from the back room, frantically tying an apron around his waist.

"Sorry I'm late, boss!" the vamp says, skidding to a halt next to Willy. "Got held up in the sewers. You won't believe how traffic is these days."

Spike fists his hand in the front of the vamp's shirt and hauls him over the bar, then slams his head into the side of the counter with a snarl—all without so much as tipping over in his stool.

Willy yelps, "Sweet Jesus!" and watches the other vamp take off running the way he came.

Spike straightens out his leather duster with a cheerful whistle and looks up at Willy. Pleasantly, he asks, "Say, you hiring?"

Willy chuckles thinly and asks, "When can you start?"

~*~

So, yeah. If Dru and them could see him now, they'd—well, Angelus and Darla were always on him about something. But boy, would they have a field day with this. Lookit little William, tending the bar like a good boy. No bite left in him at all.

Well, he gets to break a chair over the head of a drunk or two now and then, and Willy doesn't care if he drinks—blood or booze—on the job. He'll have honest money if Buffy ever needs it. And Dru's been disappointed in him for a long time. She's probably not coming back, after the last.

He just hopes the Slayer and her little friends don't find out. He's got a little dignity left, after all.

~*~

Spike's walking home from a shift one night when he runs into Buffy doing the same, that stupid hat flopping around while she walks.

"Buffy," he calls in greeting, waving to her from across the way.

She doesn't even look up. 

Spike frowns and jogs over between the rows of graves. "Oi, Slayer."

Buffy blinks, glancing around a little, and says, "Oh. It's you."

"Sorry to disappoint," says Spike. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

"No, it's just…" Buffy looks around again. "Actually, are you going home?"

"That was the plan, yeah." Spike raises an eyebrow. "Did you wanna, I dunno, talk?"

Buffy's expression is thoughtful. "Mm, I was more thinking a buncha alcohol, but words could be involved."

"You don't have to get back to Dawn?" Spike asks, though he's already leading the way.

"Nah. She's with Xander and Anya." Buffy glances up at the sky. "I should probably start letting her stay home alone for longer, huh?"

Spike hums noncommittally.

"I know she's old enough and everything, and Glory's gone," Buffy tells him. "But she's such a spaz, and after Mom…"

She trails off. Spike's not sure what to say to any of that, but he pours her a drink when they get to the crypt.

Buffy takes both the glass and bottle with her to the lower level. She sits heavily on the edge of his bed and says, "Oops," when some of the whiskey spills over the rim of her glass. She slurps it off her hand when she thinks he isn't looking.

Spike is lighting candles; he smiles fondly at her in the flickering dark. "Hard shift?"

"Blargh," says Buffy.

Spike settles next to her on the bed, his fingers curled lightly in the sheets. She hands the bottle over without looking, her eyes casting over the room. 

There's a single picture of her pinned up on the wall where the 'creepy stalker shrine' (her words) used to be. There's some of Dawn and Joyce, too, and one of him and Anya at the Bronze. An old locket of Dru's she left behind that last time she was in town—it has a portrait of Spike in it, painted begrudgingly by Angelus shortly before he was cursed.

Spike takes a swig from the bottle. He swipes a hand over the back of his mouth and passes it back to her.

Buffy takes it, wedging it between her thighs and picking at the label. She frowns, dragging it out for a long moment, then asks, "Do I smell?"

"... What?" asks Spike.

"This vamp, on the way home," Buffy explains, laughing like it isn't funny. "He said he didn't wanna bite me 'cause I smelled like Doublemeat."

She pouts, faded lipstick shimmering in the candlelight.

"And… what, you were just hoping tonight's the night someone did you in?" Spike ventures.

She smacks him on the sternum—dead center—without so much as glancing up.

"Well, yeah," Spike admits once he can talk without wheezing, "you smell like burger." Or, more accurately, like a burger bathed in burnt bacon grease. "But it's really not so bad."

Buffy's bottom lip quivers.

"No, hey, now, none of that," Spike says hastily. "I'd still bite you in a heartbeat, Slayer, I swear."

Buffy does look up at him at that—wide-eyed and a little revolted, maybe, until her lips begin to twitch.

"Well," says Spike. "That came out wrong."

Buffy giggles. She presses the side of her hand to her mouth and squeaks, "Do you… promise?"

Spike fights to keep his face serious. "Hand to _God,_ you're still the yummiest treat around, love."

"But like, would you really eat me, or would it be one of those things where you just have some to be polite?" Buffy nudges him with her elbow. "Y'know, like Willow's magic salsa."

"Oh, you'd be a lifeless husk," Spike assures her. 

"Good," Buffy says brightly, and then all the humor slides off her face again. Her hands restlessly wring the neck of the bottle.

Spike says, "Buffy—"

"I know."

"No, you don't," Spike tells her. "You don't know what I—"

Buffy pours another shot and overfills the glass, whiskey soaking into the sheets and the liquor quivering in her hand when she brings it to her mouth. She didn't actually interrupt him, he realizes, but he isn't sure what he was gonna say anymore.

"I don't look back very often," he tries, watching the change in the shape of her mouth. "Don't think much about who I was, the things I did."

"Must be nice," she says, her voice scratchy and a little distant.

"So I don't think about if I hadn't gotten the chip," Spike continues. "What I'd've done between then and now or if I'd be better off—'cause it's what I am now. I'm here."

Buffy traces her thumb along the rim of the glass, very carefully not looking at him at all.

"But I like it here, sitting like this." Spike looks down at his hands, at the sheets, at the place the mattress dips to accommodate her thigh and how close it is to his fingers. "I like being the kind of ma—" He isn't one. "So, if you'll… still be sitting next to me, that'll be good."

He can feel her eyes on him, then. It doesn't feel right to look.

Buffy asks, "What's that gotta do with how I smell?"

Spike huffs out a laugh, glancing up. He thinks his eyes must look a little something like hers—shining.

"Sod all," he says.

Buffy smiles very quietly and pours him a drink.

~*~

Spike is eating popcorn on the couch, watching _Designer's Challenge_ while curled up under a blanket, only vaguely contemplating how bizarre and possibly objectively pathetic his life has become.

"No, you ninny!" he tells the TV. "Go with number three—you've got two kids and don't want any sodding grass in your backyard?"

He scoffs as the show cuts to commercial break before the reveal. 

Buffy gets home right about then; he's a little distracted by the Zyrtec commercial—were these people on drugs when they made this? 

"Spike," she says warily. "Where's Dawn?"

"Gave her a tenner for smokes and a lotto ticket," he says absently.

The daggers being shot into the back of his head are palpable.

He sighs, tilting his head back to look at her. "She's been holed up in her room on the phone all night. Closer she gets to fifteen, the less cool I am, I expect."

Buffy rolls her eyes. "You and me both." She looks down at her grease-stained outfit. "I'm gonna go say hi to her and get changed."

Spike gestures with the remote at the telly. "I'll be critiquing the home decorating choices of strangers in Texas if you need me."

"I couldn't possibly pull you away from such important work," Buffy teases.

He smiles crookedly at her.

She heads up the stairs; he listens idly to her brief conversation with Dawn, then to the sound of the shower switching on. Then the show is back, and the stupid gits choose design number two.

"Fine," Spike grumbles, chewing irritably on a handful of popcorn to compensate. "Don't come crying to me when your brats have skinned knees every other day."

By the end of the episode, he can begrudgingly admit the landscaping is nice, at least—but his point still stands. He's debating whether or not to get invested in another episode when Buffy comes down the stairs.

Her hair is still wet from her shower; she's wearing a thin-strapped tank top and pajama bottoms with little frogs on them and no makeup, and she says, "Ooh, popcorn," when she walks into the living room.

Spike holds out the bowl in offering.

Buffy flops onto the couch instead, tugging at the blanket until Spike relents and hands it over—she tosses it over them both and curls up underneath it with her knees drawn up to her chest.

"What're we watchin'?" she asks, grabbing herself a handful of popcorn.

"Uh, show just ended. I think it's _Designer's Challenge_ again, though," Spike says.

Buffy pouts and says, "They never pick the one I like."

"Me neither," says Spike. "This bird had two kids and tore up two-thirds of the lawn for a patio."

"That's so fucking dumb!" Buffy says. "Good luck spending all your money on Band-Aids and Neosporin, lady."

"Exactly what I was saying!" Spike tells her.

Buffy smiles at him, a companionable flash of teeth, and then the next episode starts. "Okay, here we go. Ooh, wanna bet on who they pick? Loser has to patrol tomorrow."

"You're on, Slayer."

Buffy laughs and nestles contentedly deeper into the couch, drawing the blanket up around herself. The show always starts by introducing the homeowner and what room they want done—this week it's a newlywed couple and their living room.

Slowly, her eyes still fixed on the telly, Buffy leans over until her cheek is resting on Spike's shoulder.

Spike stops breathing.

He can't remind himself to—can't devote himself to anything that isn't the way her shower-warmth is seeping through his t-shirt. The way she's touching him with nothing to say about it.

Buffy wriggles, adjusting the angle and shifting a little closer. She eats another handful of popcorn and then loops her arm through his under the blanket, her fingertips brushing against his bare forearm.

She's so warm. So alive. Her hair smells like fruit and coconut and a little like burger grease and always like graveyard underneath, and there are little diamonds in her ears.

Carefully—as careful as he's ever done anything, like the ink's still wet and the paper is quivering between his fingers—Spike rests his cheek on the top of the Slayer's head.

She lets him.


	3. Chapter 3

Spike juggles bags of takeout in his hands as he climbs out of the car and locks it behind him, then makes his way up to the house. He wasn't sure if Buffy would be home yet, but by the amount of lights on he thinks she probably is. 

Something hopeful flutters in his stomach. Maybe after Dawn goes to bed they can—

They haven't had a chance to since that night. And Buffy changes the subject when he tries to bring it up. But she looks at him. She looks at him and he knows she must be thinking it—about her cheek and his shoulder, the way it felt to just lean into one another and  _ exist. _

He'll never ask for anything else if he can just feel her there with him again.

The door's unlocked; Spike shuts it behind himself and peeks into the living room, where the lights are on but no one's around. He shrugs to himself, heading for the kitchen, and calls out, "Honey, I'm—not invited?"

Buffy and the entire Scooby gang are seated around the dining room table, staring at him. Buffy's expression is somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed; everyone else's is mostly blank.

There's a weighted pause.

Giles turns back to Buffy and says, "I don't care how well it turned out, it was reckless to go alone and you should know better."

"Come  _ on,  _ Giles!" Buffy argues. "I wasn't exactly going up against the Doom Patrol here."

"Um, Buffy?" Willow points out. "They did have a ray gun."

"Yeah!" Buffy says cheerfully, and hauls a cartoonishly evil-looking device onto the table with a  _ thud.  _ "And now  _ I've  _ got a ray gun!"

Spike raises an eyebrow. "Right. Two things—what the bloody hell's going on here and do you want your food now or not, then?"

"Ooh, whatcha get me?" Buffy reaches for the bags with wriggling fingers.

"Beef lo mein," says Spike. He sets the bags on the table and starts unpacking them. "And, uh, egg rolls, fried rice, dumplings—" he glares when Xander reaches for a container. "And the rest's for Dawn."

Buffy smacks Xander's hand away and says, "Gimme."

"Buffy," Giles reproaches, "if we could concentrate for a moment on the, ah, the issue at hand."

Buffy bites an egg roll in half.

Tara tugs on Spike's sleeve to get his attention, then explains, "Do you remember that guy who made that creepy sex robot? Well, Buffy heard he was back in town and, um, turns out he and his friends were planning, like, this major bank heist."

"Warren?" Spike asks. "That was my intel! I said he was back in town!" He looks at Buffy in betrayal. "You didn't bring me along for the fight?"

Buffy snorts. "They were three humans, Spike. What were you gonna do, say mean stuff while I tied them up?"

"Well,  _ yeah,"  _ says Spike. "It's the principle of the thing—like how you invite someone to the wedding even if they can't come."

"Oh, shit," Anya asks Xander, "do we have to do that?"

Buffy shrugs unapologetically. "Sorry, jeez."

Xander says, "Oh, so Spike gets an apology and we don't? And why's he even here?"

"You guys aren't getting it," Buffy insists. "This was  _ so  _ not a big deal! You don't come with me every time I need to stake a vampire, and vampires have pointy teeth."

Xander gestures emphatically at the gun on the table.  _ "Ray gun!"  _ He flails a hand at Spike. "Why are you here?" He turns to Anya. "Yes we do!"

"Why shouldn't I be here?" Spike asks. "Apparently I'm being more useful than you lot."

"Hey!" Anya protests. "We were useful. We found an address in a phone book."

Willow adds, "And I  _ was  _ making a spell that would've—"

"Buffy didn't need a spell," Tara cuts in.

"Spike," Buffy asks. "Why  _ are  _ you here?"

Spike frowns at her, wounded. He gestures with the last take-out bag. "Where's the nibblet?"

Buffy's expression marginally softens. "In her room. She's probably all moody 'cause we kicked her out."

"I'll watch out for anything pointy," Spike says drily. 

He takes that as his cue to leave, though he stops in the kitchen for a plate and a bottled water. Dawn's door is shut; he tucks the water into the crook of his elbow and raps his knuckles on the door.

"Go away!"

Spike rolls his eyes. "It's me. I've got dinner."

"Just slide it under the door," she answers glumly. "You know, since I'm in  _ prison." _

Spike opens the door a crack and, when no stuffed animals are lobbed at him from the bed, steps inside.

Dawn eyes him warily. "What'd you get?"

"Moo shu pork," he answers, wiggling the bag invitingly.

She likes getting to put the little pancakes together herself. It feels good to know that.

Dawn brightens immediately, scrambling off the bed and onto the floor so she can eat. 

Spike leaves her in charge of unpacking all the containers. He sits across from her, leaning against the dresser, and says, "You don't wanna be down there tonight anyway, trust me—all at each other's throats, they are."

"Really?" Dawn asks skeptically. "Is that why you're here?"

"Not hardly." Spike leans forward, propping his elbows up against his knees with his chin in his hands. "What do you want for your birthday?"

Dawn grins wickedly.

~*~

"Do I even  _ wanna  _ know how you can afford all this?" Buffy asks, gesturing with the string of shopping bags dangling from one arm.

They all belong to Dawn, who's striding ahead of them through the mall not unlike how Buffy patrols on a busy night.

"Don't worry, Slayer," Spike reassures her. "It's all above board. It's not dead little old lady money, if that's what you're worried about."

Buffy does a little half-hop of excitement and almost smushes her ice cream cone into Spike's face. "Oh my God, that reminds me!"

"What could that  _ possibly  _ remind you of?" Spike asks.

Buffy grabs him by the elbow, signaling for him to hang further back from Dawn, and says, "I killed a penis monster at work last night."

Spike snorts with surprise. "You're not serious."

"I mean it!" Buffy insists. "It was  _ so  _ penis-y, and like  _ this  _ long and thicker than your arm—"

"Who knew Buffy Summers was a size queen."

"—shut  _ up!  _ Don't be so insecure."

Spike splutters, "Insecure? How would you even—"

"I would've saved the body to show you—"

"Good God, woman!"

"—but I put it through the meat grinder."

Spike chokes.

"That's literally how I killed it!" Buffy says. She does a vaguely suggestive hip motion. "Just really, really ground down on it, you know?"

"Stop getting me all hot and bothered in public," says Spike.

"Ugh, don't be gross."

Spike laughs in light-hearted protest and argues, "You started it!"

"Did not!" Buffy retorts.

"Uh, did  _ so."  _ Spike mimics her hip swish. "What's all this then?"

Buffy giggles so hard that she snorts once. "Do that again."

"Why, are you picturing me with the—"

"Hey! Pay attention!" Dawn whines, at which point Spike and Buffy both come to a halt and realize they've almost blown past the store she's stopped in front of. "I wanna go in here!"

Buffy hesitates guiltily. "Oh, I don't think they're gonna let me in with my ice cream. Why don't you and Spike go?"

Spike glances at the store name. "Sorry, nibblet, that place is hell on the nose—all the perfume." He looks at Buffy. "Trade you?"

Buffy hands over the ice cream and her bags in exchange for Spike's wallet, which she tucks into her purse. 

"Whatever," says Dawn. "We don't have to go in."

"I'm literally coming, oh my God." Buffy flits over to Dawn and wraps an arm around her shoulders. "Brat."

Dawn side-steps away from her and complains, "What were you guys even talking about that was so funny?"

Buffy glances over at Spike with barely-contained glee.

Spike waggles his eyebrows and pretends to deepthroat the ice cream cone.

Buffy shrieks with laughter—she urges Dawn into the store, pulling her along in a rush and knocking over one of the mannequins in the display window in the process. 

Dawn yelps, "Oh my  _ God,  _ what's your  _ deal?" _

Spike can hear their laughter echoing through the store. He smiles, bites the tip off the ice cream, and settles himself on a bench to wait.

~*~

Willy's has just opened for business for the day, and Spike's still only half-awake. He's been up since noon and he's the only employee here, which frankly seems like an unwise amount of responsibility to be leaving him with if you ask him—but thankfully, it's just a few of the regulars.

And Xander, who just walked through the door.

Spike is in the process of wiping the bar down with a rag. He freezes, his hand slipping a little against the counter.

Xander stares.

Spike stares back.

Xander turns and walks back out the door before Spike can say  _ don't tell Buffy. _

~*~

So, the Slayer walks into a bar.

Spike's bar, specifically, two hours further into the same accursed shift. She's not quite smiling, but everything about her face has that smug,  _ I can't wait to make you squirm  _ flair to it.

She hops up onto a stool smack dab in the middle of the bar between a marrow-sucking demon and a succubus who would both love to make her different kinds of lunch.

"So," she says brightly, folding her hands on the countertop. "This is where the magic happens."

Spike tops off the beer he's pouring for a customer down the bar. He slides it over and asks Buffy, "What'll it be?"

"I have questions," she says.

"I have answers," Spike says. "If by answers you mean drinks on the house provided you don't ask any questions."

"Hmm." Buffy props her cheek up in one hand, her eyes scanning the rows of bottles behind him. "Surprise me."

Spike smirks at her and grabs the Malibu to make a Bay Breeze in a shameless attempt at currying favor. He pours himself a drink too and slides her glass across the bar.

"Ew." Buffy wrinkles her nose at the shot glass of blood in front of her. "That is  _ so  _ not what I meant."

"Bollocks," Spike says hastily and swaps the glasses. 

She smiles teasingly.

Spike tips his proper drink to her in a toast and says, "Cheers, love."

Buffy clinks their glasses together and takes a sip. She raises her eyebrows, impressed, and Spike preens as he licks the blood off his lips.

"Mm, whatever's in this?" Buffy tells him. "You're keeping in the crypt from now on."

"Am I, now?" Spike teases. He mirrors her posture, resting his elbows on the bar.

One of the regulars, a loose-skin demon by the name of Clem, nervously says, "Um, Spike… isn't that the Slayer?"

Spike glances at him in annoyance. "Yeah, you moron. Can't you see we're having a conversation?"

Clem goes back to minding his own business.

Buffy raises an eyebrow at him. "What're you doing here, Spike?"

"Hey now," Spike protests. "You promised no questions."

"Well I lied," Buffy says nonchalantly. "You know, like you did?"

Spike frowns. "I didn't lie."

"You said you were all above board," Buffy accuses, "when you're all—subterranean."

"Am not! I'm a paid employee." Spike gestures at his work outfit, which is just his normal clothes plus an apron around the waist and a rag thrown over his shoulder, mostly to look cool. "I make an honest wage now, Slayer."

Buffy rolls her eyes and leans in closer, like she's letting him in on a secret. "Spike, where do you think these people get their money from?"

The succubus raises her hand and says, "I'm an accountant."

Buffy does a double-take, her face going blank while she processes this information. Then she looks back at Spike. "Where do you think the rest of these people get their money from?"

"Okay, I see your point," says Spike. "But I should get partial credit."

"Partial credit," Buffy repeats.

"For crimes once-removed," Spike explains, rather satisfied with his logic. "It's not like I'm eating people and taking their money, is it? I'm just… taking money from the people who eat people."

Buffy chugs the rest of her drink.

"You know," Spike informs her, "Willy bought that rum with the same blood money he's paying me with, so if you think about it—"

"Just make another one," Buffy says.

Spike tongues at the inside of his cheek. "At least admit you love the excuse to boss me around."

She doesn't deny it, which is close enough.

"But seriously," she says when he hands her the fresh glass.

Spike clucks his tongue in frustration. "I just… wanted to help out is all."

"I told you you didn't have to do this," Buffy says. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I told you  _ not  _ to do this."

"Well, don't get your knickers in a twist, 'cause I'm not giving you money."

Buffy blinks at him.

Spike picks up a pint glass to have something to do with his hands. "I just figure—I can keep my ear to the ground here, yeah? And you can't stop me from bringing food 'round. And, you know, if Dawn wants something, or you need anything…"

The glass is the same temperature as his hands. It feels like nothing when it slides against his fingers.

Buffy smiles tentatively and says, "That's just money once-removed.”

"Well, yeah," Spike admits. "But I thought we could do this whole thing with it, you know, where I launder it through pizza and new curtains and we both feel better about it."

"Like Santa Claus, but for grownups," Buffy muses brightly.

Spike says, "Yeah, exactly."

Buffy glances at him expectantly, takes a sip of her drink, then frowns when she looks up again.

"Oh boy," she says, scrunching up her mouth. "You're serious. There was a whole lap-sitting thing right there and you're not even touching it."

Damn, there really was.

Spike says, "Now that you mention it—"

"Nope, moment's passed," Buffy declares. "You get to be all serious vampire-man instead."

Spike says, "Buffy—"

She covers his hands with one of her own. "Thank you."

Spike's throat feels swollen. He swallows and says, "That's not why I did it."

Buffy sits back in her stool, bringing her glass to her lips along the way. She has a cut over one eyebrow, still a little discolored from a fight. 

"I know," she says. "Are you coming over tonight?"

Spike puts the glass back on the shelf and asks, "Do you want me to?"

Buffy shrugs with one shoulder. "How do you feel about Italian food?"

Spike smiles.

~*~

Ah, Halloween. The much revered international day of rest for the undead. Spike's been lurking in the Magic Box basement for coming up on twenty minutes, burba weed in hand, listening to the ruckus upstairs and growing ever closer to giving up on his masterful plan to… say hi to Buffy for thirty seconds and maybe ask her on a date.

He should just nick the burba weed and go. Not like anyone would notice.

But then there's the sound of footsteps on the old wooden stairs, and Buffy is grumbling to herself and walking straight into Spike's chest. He rests a hand on her forearm to steady her.

"Oh!" she yelps, then glares at him. "Bell. Neck. Look into it."

Spike waggles his eyebrows. "Comes with a nice leather collar, does it?"

Buffy rolls her eyes, which then land on the merchandise in Spike's other hand. She says, "You're paying for that," and then does a half turn with her hands on her hips, blowing out a puff of air in frustration.

"You know, normally I would," Spike says, "but it sounds like a bloody madhouse up there and you know I don't do crowds unless I can get a brawl outta it."

"Get in line," says Buffy.

"You regretting volunteering yet?" Spike asks drily.

Buffy says, "I regret a lot of things about this moment." Then, looking back at him with batted eyelashes, "Where's the mandrake root?"

Spike clucks his tongue, scanning the shelves for a moment before he finds it. He grabs a container for her and hands it over.

"Uh, here." His words falter when her fingers brush against his. "They're, uh, three to a jar. Tend to go a bit wonky if you cram 'em too close."

Buffy quirks her lips. "Thanks."

Spike clears his throat. "You wanna go out tonight? You and me, I mean."

"Oh, you don't have to work?" Buffy asks, surprised.

"Psh, not hardly," Spike tells her. "Whole bar's closed—nothing happens on Halloween."

Buffy raises an eyebrow. "Then why are we patrolling?"

Shit.

"Well, you never know, maybe there'll be a cat stuck up a tree or something," Spike counters, hiding his fluster. "No job's too small, Slayer."

She stares at him, unimpressed.

Spike bites the side of his lip in chagrin. "Yeah, alright—I thought maybe we'd just go for a walk."

There's still a part of him that always expects her to laugh—or to be disgusted. To beg him not to say it or ask it or even think it. He can see the revulsion on her face before it happens—

Even if it never does. She smiles, a little apologetically, and says, "Oh, um, I think I'm gonna be pretty beat from all the not getting to punch anything to solve my problems."

Spike laughs softly. "Fair enough."

"But," Buffy says, and suddenly there's a bad-news glint in her eye. "If we had more help upstairs, maybe I'd be up for a movie?"

Spike takes a step towards the tunnel entrance, says, "Right then, see you tomorrow," and then Buffy's fingers are wrapped around his wrist and leading him up the stairs.

God, there are so many people on this fucking planet. It's bollocks that Spike's not even allowed to eat just one.

Anya, inexplicably, is coming towards them on roller skates.

"Hey, look!" Buffy says, lifting Spike's hand in the air. "I took out one of those little mandrake guys and he grew into a person."

"That's very funny," says Anya, and snatches the container out of her hands. "Go help Giles."

Buffy pouts and marches towards the register.

Spike asks, "What can I do you for, captain?"

"I don't think Xander would like that," Anya says.

"How can I help?" Spike asks.

"Oh!" Anya spins on her skates, looking out over the shop. "You can answer stupid to moderately sensible questions people have. But don't make the answers up because that's what Xander was doing and now some guy is gonna have donkey ears all day."

Spike cranes his neck. "Where?"

"Oh, he left." Anya says brightly. "I sold him a hat. You can get to work now."

She skates away with a flourish.

"This is the hottest you've ever been!" Spike calls after her.

Anya says, "I know!"

Spike rolls his eyes fondly and goes to camp out near the raw ingredients section, where he's immediately accosted by a frazzled looking man holding a list of ingredients. 

"Excuse me," the man asks, "do you work here?"

"In the loosest sense of the word, yeah." Spike gives the man a once-over; he's attractive, a little taller and graying at the temples. "First time?"

The man grimaces. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, let's have a look." Spike leans closer to glance at the list, which looks pretty basic to him—probably some kind of party trick. "Oh, yeah, this'll treat you real well, nice and gentle-like."

"But will it buy me dinner first?" the man jokes and, oh, alright then.

Spike glances up with a smirk. "Depends on how you ask." He turns back to the list, though. "I can get you everything on here 'sides the eye of newt—we've just got salamander."

"What's the difference?" the man asks.

"Eh." Spike reaches across him, brushing against his shirt, to get the glass jar. "Newt's supposed to be a little more potent, but most of the time you won't notice." He meets the man's gaze. "You're not stopping and-or starting an apocalypse, are you?"

The man's eyes widen. "I hope not! I've got tennis tomorrow."

Spike laughs. "Salamander'll do you just fine. Let's see…" his fingers brush against the man's hand when he tilts the list towards himself. "What's next?"

"Spike," Buffy says brightly from directly behind him—making him jump. "Giles needs help at the register."

Spike raises an eyebrow at her. "I thought you were helping him?"

"Yeah," says Buffy, and wraps her hand around his upper arm in a vice grip. "Let's go."

Spike protests, "Uh, I was kinda in the middle of—"

"Don't worry, sir," Buffy tells the man in her  _ I've been at the Doublemeat Palace for six hours and I'm going to kill everyone in this room  _ voice. "An employee will be by to help you soon!"

Spike barely has time to hand the list back over before he's being dragged away. "What the bloody hell—"

"Giles, I found Spike for you!" Buffy says. "You said you needed his help, right?"

Giles, glasses askew and holding a preserved pixie by one ear, looks over at her. "I'm fairly certain I'll never need Spike's—" He cuts off, his eyebrows going up slightly. "Is… what I would have said earlier today, until just now I thought to myself, 'good heavens, I could really use Spike's help.'"

"... Right," Spike says skeptically. "What am I in for, then?"

"Ah… bagging?" Giles gestures at the spot next to him, where Spike's pretty sure Buffy was standing just a minute ago. "I… suppose."

Anya breezes by them on her skates. "Hey! Why is everyone standing around?"

"Yeah, Spike," Buffy says. "Get to work."

She's gone to take his place at raw ingredients before he can even properly glare at her. 

Spike raises an eyebrow at Giles, who shrugs and flips open the gate to usher him behind the counter. 

~*~

"Come again!" Dawn tells the last customers of the night, then thunks her head against the locked door. "Ugh, in a zillion  _ years." _

Xander, who is sprawled on the floor, raises his fake hook into the air. "Store go boom. Arr."

The rest of them besides Anya are sat on the steps in various stages of exhaustion; Spike is sitting cross-legged at Buffy's feet, deeply resenting the fact that he's been banned from smoking.

"See, if I didn't have this buggering chip, I coulda thinned the herd a little for you," he points out, putting a finger to his temple. "Think about it."

"Maybe next year," says Giles.

"That… was the most incredible thing I've ever experienced," says Anya, who sounds on the verge of tears. 

Xander lifts his head in offense.

"Except for that," she amends. Obligatorily, if you ask Spike. "What you all did for me tonight—the astounding heaps of money you helped me—"

Giles clears his throat.

_ "Us—"  _ also obligatorily. "Acquire. All I can say is—I hope we make as much tomorrow!"

A sweeping dread fills the room.

Buffy, as close to violence as Anya is to tears, repeats, "Tomorrow?"

"Oh, post-holiday clearance!" Anya says, cheerfully oblivious. "The cornerstone of retail."

Buffy groans, leaning her head back in frustration. Spike is calculating how quickly he could leave the country.

"Brooms all around then," says Giles, who rises to his feet with a grunt.

"Oh, or I could whip up a jaunty self-cleaning incantation!" Willow suggests eagerly. "It'll be like  _ Fantasia." _

"We all know how splendidly that worked out for Mickey," Giles says.

Buffy offers Spike a hand to help him up; he takes it, giving her palm a gentle squeeze before he lets go. She flashes him a smile before helping Xander up too.

Spike takes stock of the room. Anya is closing out the cash register with Dawn, showing her some kind of dance that has them both giggling up a storm—it's good to see the nibblet in better spirits.

Willow's been discouraged from her spell and is sweeping glumly by hand.

"I'll take that if you want," Spike offers her, holding out a hand. "Plenty of practice these days."

"Ooh, that's right!" Willow says. "You've got a job now. Hey—a vampire with a job!"

"Everybody's got a gimmick these days," says Xander.

Giles says, "I thought you all were pulling my leg with that."

Buffy kicks Spike on the ankle. "Speaking of having money to pay for stuff."

He turns to her in confusion. "What?"

She gives him a pointed once-over.

"Oh, bollocks," Spike complains. He fishes the burba weed out of his jacket pocket and flashes it at Anya. "Can I get you back for it tomorrow?"

Anya narrows her eyes at him. "I guess just this once. But I'm gonna make a note so we don't forget!" She mutters to herself as she scribbles on a notepad. "Spike… owes me… money."

Giles coughs pointedly.

_ "Us,"  _ Anya corrects begrudgingly.

Spike raises an eyebrow at Buffy. "Happy now?"

She makes a show of hemming and hawing about it before relenting, "Yeah, okay—movies it is."

"Ooh, movies?" Xander asks. "At the Summers residence?"

Buffy winces. "Um—"

"Aww, yay!" Willow says, skipping over to throw an arm around Buffy's shoulders. "It's been so long since we've done a good old fashioned movie night. And we can celebrate Anya's—"

"Can you people still hear me?" Giles asks.

"—big night!"

"I do love a good celebration of me," says Anya. "And scary movies are thematically appropriate."

Tara nudges Spike and says, "Oh my God, you know what movie she'd hate?  _ Donnie Darko." _

Spike blinks. "Haven't seen it."

"Oh, you should!" Tara tells him. "Willow and me saw it last week—it was totally trippy."

"I… don't really wanna go to a theater," Buffy cuts in. "I was just thinking, you know, some popcorn for dinner, maybe  _ Charlie Brown…" _

Spike brightens, saying, "I love _ The Great Pumpkin." _

"Don't sweat it, Buff," Xander says. "Popcorn dinners all around. We're easy to please."

"The lowest of maintenance," Willow declares. "We're so low maintenance, we'll make  _ you  _ popcorn—how about that, huh?"

"Wow," Buffy says flatly, glancing at Spike. "How can I turn down an offer like that?"

~*~

Spike ends up making the popcorn.

The others are all camped out in the living room—Tara and Willow are sharing the armchair; Giles, Dawn, and Buffy have the couch; and Xander and Anya are sat together on the floor near Giles' feet. 

They're arguing over what movie to watch first.

"See, you lure yourself into the Halloween spirit with the cute one," Willow is saying, "and then  _ bam!  _ Blood and guts everywhere to remind you of the reason for the season."

Xander says, "You literally just made my argument for me. That sounds  _ terrible." _

Spike wedges his way between Buffy and Dawn on the couch.

"Hey!" Dawn protests, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Sorry, nibblet," Spike tells her. "Seniority."

Dawn says, "Umm, I'm thousands of years old if you count the ball of energy thing."

"Or one and a half if you don't," Buffy counters. She shifts a little, angling towards the telly, but her thigh stays pressed against Spike's when she resettles.

Dawn sticks her tongue out.

"And if we're going by friendship seniority, first of all, why are you here?" Xander asks. "And second of all, why are me and Anya on the floor?"

Spike pelts him with a handful of popcorn.

"Hey! I'm just gonna say—I feel like you shouldn't be able to do that," Xander says accusingly, pointing a finger at him.

Spike shrugs. "If you can honestly say that hurt, we've got bigger problems than my chip, mate."

"Guys," Buffy says, "can we pick a movie?"

"Yes, let's," Giles says impatiently. 

Tara says, "Well, Buffy, it's you and Dawnie's house. Why don't you two pick?"

Buffy shrugs and looks at Dawn. "Whatcha thinking?"

"I'm with Xander on this one," she answers. "Scary first."

"Scary it is!" Buffy declares. "What've we got?"

_ "The Blair Witch Project,"  _ Anya tells her.

Buffy tilts her head. "Huh. Weren't we supposed to go see that when it came out?"

"Guess we never got around to it," Xander says. "What apocalypse was that again?"

"No, no," says Buffy. "Someone was too scared. Wasn't it you, Will?"

"Oh, no," Willow says. Then, "Well, I mean yes, but I only said that 'cause Xander was too scared to go and he was embarrassed and—oh. Sorry."

Xander slouches deeper against the couch.

"Aww, if you're too scared, sweetie, we can just watch the silly pumpkin movie," Anya tells him, patting him on the knee.

"Hey!" Spike protests.  _ "Charlie Brown  _ is a sodding classic."

"I'm not too scared!" Xander argues. "I'm a world-wearied man now. Nothing scares me."

Anya says, "You did make me kill that spider the other day."

Spike snorts with amusement.

"I didn't like the way he was looking at me and for the love of God just put the movie on," says Xander.

Anya shrugs and inserts the VHS tape.

Dawn reaches over and switches off the overhead lights, leaving the room lit only by a lamp in the corner and the flickering of the television. 

Spike leans over and teases in Buffy's ear, "You can hold my hand if you get scared, love."

She jabs him in the ribs.

~*~

"Oh, come  _ on!"  _ Buffy gestures indignantly at the screen. "You're just gonna leave the tent like that? What's the point?"

"Shh," says Giles.

"Bloody amateurs is what they are," Spike agrees around a mouthful of popcorn.

Buffy says, "And turn off the fu—the light!"

"'Hey, you know what'll help us escape?'" Spike mocks. "'Screaming bloody murder so the whole forest hears us.'"

_ "Shh,"  _ says Giles.

Buffy guffaws, smacking Spike on the thigh. "She didn't even sleep with her shoes on!"

"They knew the woods were haunted, I mean—there's really no excuse."

"Hey, Will?" Xander says miserably from the floor. "I remembered the other reason we never went to go see this movie."

~*~

They've just found the bundle of sticks with Josh's blood on them when Dawn stands up and says unconvincingly, "Well, this has been fun. See ya tomorrow."

"Woah," Buffy says, cutting off mid-laugh. "Tomorrow?"

Anya pauses the movie.

"I'm staying at Janice's, remember?" Dawn tells Buffy.

Buffy frowns. "That's tonight?"

"No," Dawn snarks. "It's the other Halloween. Come on, you said I could go!"

Buffy hesitates, sitting up straighter on the couch. "I—I know, but we're doing movie night!"

"If that's what you'd call it," Giles mutters.

"Can't you at least be late?" Buffy asks.

Dawn sighs loudly. "I'm  _ already  _ late. And you're not even watching the movie for real—you're just making fun of it."

"That counts as watching!" Buffy argues. She looks at Spike. "Doesn't it count as watching?"

"Uh, yeah," says Spike.

Dawn says, "Of course  _ he  _ agrees with you."

Buffy blinks indignantly.

"Please just let me go?" Dawn begs. "It's four blocks over, I'll go right there. It's not like I'm gonna be roaming the streets."

Well, that makes Spike think she's gonna be roaming the streets. He raises an eyebrow at her; she doggedly looks away.

"... Alright, fine." Buffy smiles reluctantly. "Have fun."

Dawn grins excitedly. "You're the best! Bye!"

She bolts straight for the door—rookie mistake.

"Hang on now, nibblet," Spike calls.

Dawn stops in her tracks, turning to look at him apprehensively.

Spike says, "Forgetting your bag, aren't you? If you're staying overnight."

"Oh.  _ Duh."  _ Dawn laughs nervously. "Silly me. I'll just—go get one!"

Yeah, that's what he thought.

"God, she's such a spaz," Buffy says as soon as Dawn's footsteps fade up the stairs. She claps her hands together and asks, "More movie?"

"Not that we've seen any so far," says Giles.

Anya unpauses the video.

~*~

Spike is making a second round of popcorn in preparation for  _ The Great Pumpkin  _ when the phone rings. He waits three rings to see if anyone will pick it up from the living room before Buffy shouts, "Can you get that?"

Spike sighs and picks up the phone. "Hullo?"

"Oh, um—sorry, I'm calling for Buffy Summers?" a woman answers. "It's Clara Penshaw, Janice's mother."

"Oh, yeah, you've got the right place," Spike tells her. "I'm Buffy's friend. Want me to get her for you?"

Clara says, "Actually I just wanted to ask Janice if she wants me to bring over her toothbrush? It looks like she forgot it."

Well, shit.

_ Can't cover for you now, nibblet,  _ Spike thinks.

"Uh, hang on," he says. "Dawn said she was staying at your place."

"What?" Clara asks worriedly. "They're not with you?"

"No, they're not with—" Spike covers the receiver and shouts, "Buffy!" He turns back to the phone. "They're not here."

Clara says, "Oh my God, I can't believe she's doing this again. She  _ promised— _ you didn't think to check when Dawn said where she was going?"

"Uh, hello, lady-kettle," Spike says irritably as Buffy walks into the kitchen. "You didn't give us a ring either, and apparently you  _ knew  _ yours was—"

"What's wrong?" Buffy asks.

"How  _ dare  _ you?" asks Clara.

"Don't worry yourself over it, love" Spike says into the phone. "We'll find 'em. Sort of a talent of ours."

Buffy asks, "Find  _ who?" _

Spike hangs up the phone. "Apparently Dawn's pulled a Houdini—she's not at Janice's place. Coincidentally, neither is Janice, so they're off somewhere together, I expect."

"I'm gonna fucking kill her," Buffy says. "If something doesn't eat her first."

She turns and marches back into the living room.

Spike, abandoning the popcorn and his hopes of a  _ Charlie Brown  _ Halloween, follows her. "Don't worry so much, Slayer—it's everything nasty's night off, innit?"

"Uh, why's he saying that?" Xander asks warily.

Buffy is standing with her arms crossed. "Janice's mom just called looking for Janice."

"Ah, dipping into the classics." Xander pushes to his feet. "Gotta respect 'em."

"Ah, right—I expect you'll want us to find her?" Giles asks Buffy.

She nods. "Sorry guys."

"Hey, we just watched a horror movie," Xander says. "Why not live one?"

"Okay, um—" Buffy pushes her fingers into her hair. "They might've gone downtown—Willow, Tara, can you check the Bronze?"

Willow says, "Yeah, of course."

"And we should check the college, maybe—see if they snuck into a party or something," Buffy says. "Xander, Anya?"

"Done," says Xander.

"What about the park?" Spike suggests.

Buffy blinks at him.

"You know, the one by Restfield?" he clarifies. "I've, uh, seen a lot of teenagers out there after dark lately. Seems like a gathering spot."

"Okay, good idea," Buffy says.

Giles points out, "Someone should stay here in case Janice's mother calls back."

"I'd rather have everyone out looking," Buffy answers. "There's too much ground to cover."

"But what if they return here?" Giles asks.

"Then I'll be really pissed off when I get home," says Buffy.

Giles hesitates for a moment, then says, "Fine. What shall I do, then?"

Buffy tells him, "Come with us for now—we'll split up to cover more ground at the cemetery."

"Alright," Giles says.

Buffy says, "Okay, everyone, let's go."

They all grab their coats and head outside—Xander and Anya take their car, but the rest go on foot.

"I can't  _ believe  _ her!" Buffy says, gesturing emphatically as she strides down the street. "What the hell is she thinking?"

"Probably that she's fifteen and wants a bit of fun, love," Spike says.

"Don't  _ 'love'  _ me!" she snaps. "This is serious."

Spike holds up his hands placatingly. "I know—we'll find her."

Buffy says, "But what if—" and then an ambulance drives by.

They follow it.

It stops a few blocks down the road, where a woman is being loaded onto a stretcher. Spike can smell the blood, and damn if he isn't hungry. He should've had something with his popcorn.

There's a clear bite mark on the woman's neck. So much for taking the night off.

Buffy says, "I'm gonna run back to the house and get weapons. You guys go on ahead—I'll catch up."

She takes off without waiting for a response. 

Giles and Spike keep walking. They check the park first, but there's no sign of Dawn or Janice there. It runs up against the graveyard, so they hop the fence and listen for the sound of anyone about.

"Mist, cemetery, Halloween," Giles mutters. "This should end well."

"With a vamp, no less," Spike adds.

"Bloody brilliant."

They're near the tree line when a scream pierces the air.

Spike glances at Giles. "You go that way—I'll come around back."

He nods and takes off.

Spike moves quickly but quietly, hoping to get the jump on whatever else is going bump in the night—but he stumbles into a clearing instead, with a car parked in the middle.

They must be near one of the trails. Spike should've realized.

He takes a step closer and recognizes Dawn's face—and the shape of the one she's snogging.

Spike tears the door off its hinges and pulls Dawn from the car.

She screams, thrashing around and catching him square on the jaw— _ ow. _

"'Atta girl," Spike tells her. "It's me. It's  _ me." _

"I know!" she snaps, stumbling out of his grip. "What the hell are you doing?"

Spike gestures sharply at her little boyfriend, who's advancing on them as they speak. "Uh,  _ saving  _ you? He's a vamp, bite-sized."

"Not cool, man," the vamp says. "We were just hanging out."

Dawn gasps when she sees his face, taking a step backwards towards Spike.

"The girl's off-limits, mate," Spike tells him. "And  _ grow up.  _ It's Halloween—we take the night off."

At least three pairs of headlights immediately contradict him.

"Bollocks," says Spike.

There's at least six vamps now—maybe two more, or else some very confused humans. Not unwinnable odds, but Giles would help.

_ "Spike!"  _ Buffy shouts.

Or the Slayer.

Spike turns just in time to catch the crossbow she throws him.

"'Ello, love," Spike says cheerfully. "We're having us a party."

"Oh my  _ God,"  _ says Dawn. "I can't believe you ratted me out!"

Buffy strides towards them; a vamp tries to stop her—she stakes him without missing a step.

_ "Ratted?"  _ she repeats, looking at Spike accusingly. "Did you  _ know _ about this?"

"Uh, not as such," Spike hedges. "And do you think we could maybe—"

But Buffy's found a new target, taking in the car and Dawn's clearly borrowed jacket.

"Oh my God," she says incredulously. "Were you parking with a  _ vamp?" _

"I—I didn't know he was dead!" Dawn argues.

"Living dead," says the vamp.

"Shut up," says Dawn.

Buffy demands, "How could you not know?"

Giles chooses this moment to stumble into the clearing, coming to stand with Buffy and Spike.

"I just met him!" Dawn says defensively.

"Oh! Oh, so you were parking with a boy you just met?" Buffy asks, her voice going increasingly higher in pitch.

The vamp says, "We've seen each other at parties."

"Shut  _ up,"  _ says Buffy.

Spike glances around at the definitely not decreasing number of vampires. "Uh, love—"

"You shut up too," Buffy tells him. She looks back at Dawn. "I can't believe you!"

Dawn crosses her arms indignantly. "Like you've never fallen for a vampire."

Buffy gapes at her. "That was different!"

_ Yeah, _ Spike thinks bitterly.  _ It was.  _

"It always is when it's you," Dawn accuses darkly.

"Um, excuse me?" asks one of the other vampires. "Can we fight now?"

Buffy makes a  _ might as well  _ face. "Hey, didn't anyone just come here to make out?"

The—ah, Spike was right—two terrified humans raise their hands.

"Aw, that's sweet," Buffy tells them. "You run."

They do.

Buffy turns to one of the other vampires and suggests, "You scream."

He probably will. 

The three of them spring into the fight. Spike ends up in a brawl with the one he assumes is the leader, who he manages to take out with the crossbow. He gets tackled to the ground while he's re-loading and misfires, cursing as he and the other vamp tumble in the dirt. It's over quick once Spike fumbles for another bolt and uses it like a stake—and then he's treated to one of his favorite sights.

Buffy is fighting dirty with a vamp over the hood of the car, both of them grappling for anything they can use for an advantage. There's a moment with a radio antenna where Spike briefly thinks he oughta help out, but then Buffy's slamming the vamp's head against the gaping frame where the door used to be and promptly dusting him with the seatbelt as a noose and goddamn if Spike isn't hot for her right now.

"Hey!" Buffy snaps at him. "Where's Dawn?"

Spike says, "Shit," and takes off running.

He can track her scent now that she's nearby—he's not careful about it, crashing through the brush, and he finds her on her back on the ground with a thin layer of dust covering her borrowed jacket.

Spike stumbles to a halt above her. There are tears in her eyes; she's holding a crossbow bolt.

"You alright, sweet bit?" he asks, holding out a hand.

"I killed him," Dawn says flatly, and gets up on her own.

"... That you did," Spike says, for lack of anything else. "Let's go home."

~*~

"So, uh, big monster bashing?" Willow asks, after Giles has been given an ice pack and Dawn's been sent to sulk in the dining room. "Sorry we missed it."

Tara brushes by her for the door. "As long as Dawn's okay."

Willow frowns and says, "Yeah, that's what I—"

"Xander and Anya are probably still looking on campus," Tara says. She grabs her coat and shrugs into it again. "I'll go tell them what happened. I wanna go home anyway."

"Tara," Willow says. Then,  _ "Tara,"  _ again when she heads for the door without responding. "You can't walk all the way to campus alone!"

Spike glances at Buffy; she mirrors his confusion. Another quarrel?

"I can drive you both home," Giles offers. "I would very much like to be in bed myself, actually."

Buffy tells him, "Thanks for tonight."

"Of course." Giles glances over at Dawn. "Buffy, this sort of behavior tends to escalate—something must be done."

"I know," she says. "We'll handle it."

Giles shoots Spike an odd look—something between perplexed and disapproving. "Very well."

The three of them take their leave; Buffy locks the door behind them, and then the house goes temporarily quiet.

"What'd you know?" Buffy asks—it sounds like a threat.

"... I caught her sneaking out once before," Spike admits. "But listen—I gave her a right talking to and I only said I wouldn't snitch 'cause she promised not to do it again."

"Oh, well since she  _ promised,"  _ Buffy says sarcastically. "When was this?"

Spike says, "Uh, after the engagement party."

"Since  _ August?"  _ Buffy asks incredulously. "You've been lying to me since—"

"I wasn't lying!" Spike protests 

"You knew!" Buffy accuses. "You knew when she left tonight, didn't you? That's why you said to bring a bag, that's why you suggested the park—"

Spike says, "I was trying to scare her off it, not encourage her!"

"Oh, 'cause that worked out  _ great." _

"I thought I had it under control."

"But it wasn't up to you!" Buffy says, throwing her hands up in frustration. "I mean, where do you get off—"

"Are you fucking _ serious?" _ Dawn shouts.

Buffy laughs incredulously, turning to face her in the other room. "Okay, that word  _ so  _ did not just leave your mouth."

Dawn stands up, her hands shaking where they're clenched in the letterman jacket, and accuses, "I'm the one who snuck out and almost died, and all you care about is yelling at Spike."

"Oh, trust me—yelling at Spike is my  _ warmup,"  _ Buffy says. "You're gonna  _ wish  _ I started with you by the time we're finished. But hey, you know what? Because I'm such a giver, let's go ahead. Where the hell did  _ you  _ get off?"

Dawn says, "Like you even care."

"Oh, yeah, I'm feeling real apathetic right now," Buffy snaps. She tangles her fingers in her hair. "I don't care at all that my sister's apparently either a complete idiot or likes getting her friends killed for fun! Do you know how much blood Janice lost? Do  _ you  _ even care?"

Dawn's eyes are wet. "Of course I do."

"'Cause she didn't have any idea what she was getting into," Buffy continues. "But you did. You knew exactly how dangerous it was to be in that graveyard, alone, behind my back."

Dawn argues, "You were sneaking out all the time when you were my age. I covered for you with Mom so many times—"

"I was doing it to protect people. I didn't have a choice," Buffy says. "You were kissing boys!"

_ "God,"  _ Dawn tells her. "Like that makes you so much better than me."

Buffy's voice cracks. "You know what? It does! It does make me better, and if I loved you even a  _ little  _ less I would totally trade with you, okay? Because it blows!"

Dawn blinks at her.

"Do you think I  _ liked  _ spending most of high school hanging out in graveyards?" Buffy asks, like it's skittering up her throat. "God, I would've  _ killed  _ to be the one who just had book club with Mom. I lost so much time with her and I'd do anything to get it back, and saving the world didn't even help her. It didn't even make her love me more."

Dawn's jaw is clenched; she's breathing hard, erratically.

Spike says, "Buffy—"

"I just wanted to be a boring girl who went on boring dates with normal boys," Buffy says wetly. She's not talking to Dawn anymore, but she's looking at her. "I wanted a  _ childhood. _ And now you're throwing yours away because you wanna be cool or something, and the only person who can make me feel even remotely normal is a fucking soulless vampire."

Something wrenches at Spike's sternum.

"So, yeah," Buffy says. She shifts her weight, bottom lip quivering. "My life's better, right? Do you want it?"

Dawn bolts for the stairs.

Buffy grabs her arm and says, "We're not finished yet."

Dawn freezes, her spine a straight line of tension.

"You're hurting me," she says.

Buffy drops her grip in blank horror.

Dawn stomps up the steps—her door slams, echoing down the hallway.

The house creaks; Spike can hear lingering revellers outside, scuffing their shoes on the pavement and tripping through the warm California air.

Buffy looks at him, her chin lifted in counterpoint to the way it trembles. She says, "What, no snide remark?"

Spike shakes his head.

"Oh, c'mon," Buffy says, spreading her arms. "Take a shot. Let's just get 'em all in."

"Wouldn't be sporting, love," Spike says softly.

Buffy's gaze goes flat. "Then why're you still here?"

The dismissal stings. Spike turns for the door anyway, though—what else is there to do?

"I didn't—" Buffy cuts off. He glances back—at the wide, welling-over of her eyes. "You're really leaving?"

Oh. Oh, the way his chest can still ache.

"I never wanna go, Slayer," Spike says slowly, turning all the way back around. "That's sorta the problem, innit?"

Buffy wraps her arms around his middle and sobs.

She'd be holding him too tight, if he were human.

Spike lets her crush his ribs and cups a hand against the back of her head, fingertips burying softly in her dirty hair, his other arm holding her against his chest. She can probably feel his bones threatening to crack; she clutches him a little tighter.

"I'm so fucking tired," she tells him. "Is this all there is? Is this how it'll be forever?"

Always about to die. Always about to live.

"Eventually she'll get old enough we can ship her off to college," says Spike.

Buffy sobs harder.

"Or lock her up in the basement," he offers.

"She's all I have." Buffy takes a gasping breath. "She's all I've got and she's not okay and you knew and you—" She bangs a fist against his chest. "Didn't—" The other.  _ "Tell me." _

She hits him with both and his head cracks against the door when he stumbles back against it with force.

Buffy puts a hand to her mouth.

Spike stays where she put him.

"I did it for you, pet," he says desperately. "So you wouldn't have to feel like this."

Buffy curls her fingers up again.

"Oh, yeah, well you did a  _ great  _ job," she says. "Look how much I don't feel it. What're you gonna do now?"

"Anything," says Spike. "God help me, Buffy—anything you want me to."

She takes a step forward and fists a hand in his shirt, and his first thought is that she's finally going to stake him.

He doesn't have a second thought, because she's kissing him to leave a bruise.

Spike is a dead thing against her mouth, and then he kisses her back.

His hand finds her hip; she pulls him down against her, her breath hot against him and shaky, searing him like sunlight and his lungs match the pace of it like a metronome.  _ In-out-in—out-in-out-out-out, _ and he presses his forehead against hers when she breaks away.

"Spike?" she asks, and he can feel her wavering. The sharp ache in her eyes when she sees him this up-close. "Do you remember how you said I'd never love you?"

He thinks about it every goddamn day.

"You were right," Buffy says, and kisses him again.

He doesn't care. It doesn't matter that she'll never love him, that he'll always be clinging to her sleeves as she turns away. He'll be beneath her until he turns to dust and the ashes will be earth under her feet. 

"Buffy," he murmurs. "You don't have to—"

"Shut up," she whispers.

It's gentler this time, even with her teeth in his bottom lip.

Spike falls back against the door, his shoulders slipping a little when she crowds against him. She worries at the bruises on his mouth with her tongue and he teases his against her. 

He used to kiss Dru like this—a little sweet and a little filthy. She used to bring her demon out and giggle around the blood.

Buffy slides a hand up the planes of his stomach, abs and ribs. She puts his thigh between her legs and rubs up against him, and he can smell her getting wet for him.  _ For him.  _ His hand on her lower back, skimming up under the shirt and caressing her spine, his body vibrating like a tuning fork at her touch.

"Fuck," she says. "We shouldn't here. If Dawn comes downstairs—"

"Bedroom?" Spike asks.

Buffy nips at his jaw. "She'll hear."

Spike bares his throat, head lolling to the side. The living room's around a corner. "Couch?"

"God," Buffy says, "like I'm sixteen," and drags him there by the shirt.

Spike falls back against the cushions when she pushes him there. He spreads his thighs with a flash of his tongue between his teeth and Buffy straddles him.

He can feel her rutting against his prick every time she rolls her hips, gasping in his ear. She puts her hands all over him, makes him shrug off the duster and loses her patience with the shirt, which tears as she's pulling it off him.

Spike's not sure what good a corner'll do if she's planning on stripping him, but then Buffy drags her nails down his chest and he doesn't bloody care. He cups her breast through her camisole, rubbing a thumb over her nipple where it's peeking through the fabric.

"Fuck," she breathes. "Do that again."

Spike shudders. He teases her with the pad of his thumb, his hips jerking restlessly as she takes her pleasure against him, and then slips his hand under the shirt.

Buffy is sucking a mark onto his throat. She says, "Leave it on."

Spike's mouth is hung open a little—just enough to show his teeth. His demon face is fighting to come out and there's a kind of pleasure-pain to keeping it down, like a hand wrapped around the base of his cock when he's about to come. 

Buffy's eyes are as dark as Spike's feel, her hair spilling out of the two buns she'd kept it in all night. He wants to put his tongue on every inch of her.

Her face flashes with irritation when he flips her onto her back, but then—

"Oh," she says faintly, flopping back against the pillows as he kisses down her stomach. "Not like I'm sixteen."

Spike snorts and pops open the button on her trousers. She lifts her hips and wiggles to help him pull them off; they join his shirt on the floor.

He leaves her knickers for now—a plain black pair with a little pink bow near the top—and kisses and suckles at the inside of her thigh.  _ God,  _ it's almost too much. Her blood under the delicate skin, under his mouth. The smell of her soaking through her panties.

Buffy squirms, digging a heel into his shoulder. "C'mon already."

Spike chuckles, but he drags his palm against her clit before splaying his fingers over her stomach, holding her down gently. 

"Just getting you good and wet first, love," he teases, dragging his teeth against her in a way that makes her shudder.

Buffy's abdomen flexes against his hold. "Isn't that what your tongue's for?"

"For my pleasure," Spike murmurs, nosing against her cunt. He mouths hungrily at her through the fabric, shifting to spread her legs wider with his shoulders. "Wanna taste you, pet."

"Oh, God," Buffy says, but not the good kind. He glances up and finds her face red. "I just—you can smell—"

"How hot you are for it?" Spike interrupts, gazing at her earnestly. "It's incredible, Buffy."

She drags her hands over her face. "I haven't even showered since the fight."

"The one that turned me on like crazy?" Spike asks. He shifts his hand, rubbing his thumb across her bare hip. "God, what a hardship."

Buffy raises an eyebrow. "The fight? Really?"

"Well, yeah." Spike kneads her thigh with his other hand, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of her knee. "That thing you did with the seatbelt…"

"The brutal decapitation?" Buffy asks, laughing despite herself. "That's what did it for you?"

Spike holds eye contact unapologetically.

"Fine, eat me out, you freak."

Happily. Spike hooks his fingers in her waistband and drags her knickers slowly over her thighs. He kisses a line down one of them as he goes, over the smooth skin of her shin, a delicate ankle before she sticks her toes in his face impatiently.

Spike puts his mouth on her clit first. He sucks gently, feeling out how sensitive she is—she twitches a little, then hums with pleasure when he laps at her with his tongue. She's groomed but unshaven, hair the color of wet sand tickling at his nose.

"Ah," she says softly. "I…"

She doesn't finish the thought. Spike moves lower, tasting the wetness between her folds. Her thighs close around his head when he slips his tongue inside—holding him down, his eyelids drooping shut in pleasure, her hips already stuttering in demand.

God, he'd love to tie her one day. Make her just lay back and take it, stop trying to do everything herself. 

She'd never let him.

"Fuck," she says. "Spike."

He can't answer her—mostly on account of he can't actually breathe at this angle. But he doesn't need to—just curls his tongue inside her and lets her fuck herself on his face.

Buffy's breathing turns shallow. She twists restlessly, kicking her feet against his shoulders—he has to brace his forearms to keep her from shoving him off the couch. 

The change in position gives him enough air to chuckle. He shifts further and pins her by the hip, something going warm and tight in his stomach at the little sound she makes—like relief, almost. The couch creaks underneath them when she arches against the hold.

She could get away from him six or seven different ways—could probably kill him two or three without even reaching for a stake. But she moves with him, his touch, the torture of his tongue. 

"Oh, shit, right there," she moans, her skin like fire underneath him. "Stay there."

He does.

She comes with every muscle taut like a trip wire, the breath punching out of her in a strangled sob, her thighs clamping down over his ears like the sound of it could kill him.

Spike briefly worries she'll break his nose.

He's never been so hard in his life.

Buffy melts into the couch as the aftershocks bleed out of her, her chest heaving for a scant few breaths before her Slayer's body remembers itself. She tugs her hair free from its ties and splays it above her head like a crown.

"Well," she says lightly. "That didn't suck."

Spike noses up the line of her thigh. "Want another?"

"Come up here," she says.

Spike slinks towards her, catching her mouth hungrily in a kiss. He feels her nose wrinkle at the taste of herself, but she brushes her fingers through the soft hairs at the base of his head. 

"I want…" she mutters, teeth distracted by his bottom lip. "Wanna… take these off."

She pushes her foot against his hip, catching her heel on his belt. 

Spike fumbles with the buckle one-handed, eyes closed as he kisses along her jaw, and she slips both her hands down the back of his trousers and gropes his arse. He moans, mouth trailing down to her neck.

"You're all boney," Buffy tells him.

"Thanks ever so," Spike says against her throat.

She pinches his side and helps him get out of his trousers and pants—helpful being relative, since she tosses them somewhere without him seeing. "Is it cause you don't eat enough?"

Spike resettles over her with an eyebrow raised. "It's 'cause I was boney when I died, love. Can we…?"

Buffy hooks a leg around his waist, so he takes that as a  _ yes. _

He sinks his weight against her, pressing their foreheads together, and she slides both warm hands up his back, fingertips skimming over his shoulder blades.

God, but she's beautiful up close, in the light. She's beautiful across a battlefield, a righteous thing glinting in the dark, but he can't see all the colors in her eyes like that.

"Spike," Buffy whispers, rubbing a thumb over the knob at the base of his neck. "What're you doing?"

_ Falling in love with you all over,  _ he thinks.  _ Writing poetry. _

What rhymes with ocean?

He says, "Waiting for you to ask nicely, Slayer."

Buffy smirks, fingertips pushing into his hair. "Guess we're gonna be here a while."

Spike kisses the corner of her mouth, the underside of her chin, the edge of her throat. He nuzzles at her clavicle, teases his teeth at the place it dips towards her sternum. Cups the side of her face in one hand and thumbs at her flushed cheek.

"Spike," she says, and his name in her mouth is close enough.

He lines himself up and pushes inside slowly—feeling the heat of her, how slick she is, the welcoming push of her heel into the small of his back.

_ Motion. _

Rocking into her, the rolling of waves, her eyes slipping shut, the lace of her camisole scraping against his chest.

He buries his face in the side of her neck. She keeps dragging her nails down his back, like she's digging for something, like something's supposed to happen. 

She keeps happening to him. 

All around him, all inside him. Covered in her, burning from her.

_ You taste like ashes. You taste like ashes. _

Spike bites the place her neck joins her shoulder.

"Fuck," Buffy pants. Her hand becomes a fist in his hair, her body shows him how to move. "Do that harder."

"The chip, love," Spike murmurs.

"I'm asking," Buffy tells him. "It's not the same if I'm asking, is it?"

Spike sinks his blunt human teeth into her skin—feels the give of it and a rumble in the base of his throat that belongs to his hunger. She moans, back arching off the couch, and the only pain he feels is the sting of her nails finally drawing blood.

"Want you," he rasps weakly. "God, Buffy, I love you. I love you so much."

"Leave a mark," she says.

_ Devotion. _

Bruises are broken blood vessels under the skin. A half-thing, an almost. It's been a long time since he was capable of killing her—not so long since he wanted to. He'd still drink her if he could. He'd know every way to taste her.

But this thing she wants—everything she wants. Her blood, spilling. Not in his mouth. Love, poured over her. Not in her mouth.

He'll do it.

"'M close," Spike pants. "Do—"

"I'm there," she says. "Fuck."

Spike speeds his pace, chasing the sparks shooting up his spine, and she grinds against him with every thrust.

He asks, "Can I—"

"Yeah," she says. The hand in his hair drags him up into a kiss. "Just—"

She comes again, remarkably like she cries. Twisting shoulders and wounded sounds made of quick, broken things and hurting him while she does it—a fistful of his hair and clawing at his bicep.

It's the pain that sends him following her over the edge.

He kisses her one last time, then rests his forehead against her temple with a sigh. She untangles her legs from around him and sinks back against the pillows.

Spike's eyes are drooping shut. He shifts a little, slipping out of her to lay half on his side, and brushes his lips against her cheek. For a moment they stay like that, and then—

"Oh,  _ ew,"  _ Buffy says, and smacks him on the ribs. "Get me a towel or something! It's dripping—"

Spike rolls off the couch. "Bugger."

He stumbles to his feet, futily scans the floor for his pants, then gives up and bolts for the downstairs bathroom bare-arse naked.

He comes back with a wad of toilet paper and a hand towel and finds her with her hips tilted up in the air and a pouty glare on her face, levelled in his direction.

Spike snickers affectionately and points out, "I did  _ ask." _

"I forgot how gross it was," she complains, snatching the toilet paper and holding it between her thighs. 

Spike glances around the room again. "What the hell did you do with my clothes?"

"Mm," she says, stretching her other arm above her head; her back cracks with the motion. "Dunno."

"Alright then." Spike shrugs and flops back on top of her; she squeaks in protest. "You explain the naked vampire to the pissed off teenager upstairs."

"Don't  _ even  _ about that!" she scolds, smacking him on the same spot. 

He grins at her.

She meets his gaze, eyes twinkling, and starts to giggle.

"What?" Spike asks. She cups a hand over her mouth. "What is it?"

"Your hair," Buffy tells him, still giggling "It's like, half-gel, half-fluffy—all tragic."

Spike sits up in a huff. "Well, whose fault is that?"

"Oh, don't be a baby." Buffy rises to a sitting position and wiggles her fingers at him. "C'mere."

Reluctantly, Spike ducks his head.

Buffy cards her fingers through his hair, breaking up the gel, then tousles it. Her nails are soothing against his scalp.

"There," she declares. "I like it like this."

Spike looks up at her from under his lashes, something vulnerable bubbling up through his chest.

Buffy's hand drifts down the side of his face; her knuckles brush the corner of his eye. She says, "No one can know."

_ Anything,  _ he'd said.

"They…" she looks up at the ceiling, breathing out in a way that's half-laughter. "They wouldn't understand."

Spike wraps his fingers around her wrist, drawing her hand away from his face. Her fingers curl reflexively, but she tolerates the touch.

"Do you?" he asks.

Buffy wears earnestness like a weapon. "Just promise you won't tell."

She's ashamed of him. Or 'least the thing she wants from him isn't meant to be seen up close, in the light. Doesn't need to have all the colors.

_ Ocean. _

Spike brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles very gently, and he watches her eyes swim with the horror of that.

"Our little secret," he swears.

Buffy glances away. "I should… check on Dawn."

Spike watches her stand up; she shimmies back into her knickers and trousers and blows out a puff of air.

"Uh, Buffy," he says.

She looks at him expectantly—he touches the place on his own neck where he left the hickey on hers.

"Shit," Buffy says, her hand going up in kind. "And change, I guess."

Spike hesitates, then tilts his head towards the front door. "Should I…?"

"I'll be back," Buffy tells him, which is a kind of answer.

He waits until she's up the stairs before resuming the search for his clothes.

His shirt's distended around one of the sleeves where she ripped at it, but wearable. He finally finds his jeans and underwear behind the far side of the couch and hops into those, too, not bothering with the belt. 

Then, he hangs up his duster on the banister and heads into the kitchen. 

They're almost out of blood; he'll have to bring more over next time he's out. Spike pours the rest of it into a mug, slurping a little off the top before he sticks it in the microwave.

Watching it spin around's no good. Spike keeps thinking—about her never loving him, about her touching him like she did. There must be something wrong about him—beyond the obvious. Something that makes him feel…

Spike puts the kettle on and pulls the hot chocolate mix down from the top of the fridge. He gets the little marshmallows from the pantry. He leans his head back against the cabinets and reminds himself that he doesn't have to breathe.

That he keeps seeing love where it isn't. That he can't make anyone do it.

Dru loved him, didn't she? Or was it like this?

The microwave beeps. He takes a long drink, which helps a little, and rinses the deli container in the sink before he tosses it in the bin.

Then the kettle, then stirring with one of those little spoons that has ivy leaves engraved on the handle, and he washes and dries and puts that away too because it was Joyce's favorite set and Buffy can hardly look at it. 

He waits for her on the couch.

When she comes downstairs, she's in sweatpants and a t-shirt that declares her part of the Sunnydale Class of '99 and was, judging by the size, probably forgotten here by Xander. She's brushed her hair and taken off her makeup.

"Ooh," she says, and tucks herself immediately against his side. "Chocolate."

Spike glances down at her; their fingers brush when she takes the mug. "How's she doing?"

Buffy's cheek is propped up against his chest. She blows on her cocoa and says, "I apologized, but…"

She trails off.

Tentatively, Spike shifts so his arm is wrapped around her shoulders. She slips an arm around his middle in turn and snuggles closer, and it's hardly a movement at all to press a kiss to the top of her head.

"I'm tired," Buffy says quietly.

Spike trails his fingers up and down her arm. "Don't tell me that little round's all it takes to wear you out, Slayer."

"Not that kind," she says, which he knew.

Spike sets his mug down on the end table and puts both arms around her, his nose buried in her hair, his voice rumbling against her temple. "You wanna turn the lights down?"

"Yeah," she says. "Can we—"

Spike is reaching over to hit the light switch. He pauses, looking back at her encouragingly.

Buffy says, "We didn't get to watch  _ Charlie Brown." _

God, he loves her.

"I'll put it on," Spike says. He squeezes her arm and heads over to the telly, where the rented copy of  _ Blair Witch  _ is on the floor next to the VCR.

The Summers' copy of  _ It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!  _ is a home recording. Joyce's neat handwriting labels the VHS tape and is surrounded by pumpkins, candy corn, and a single witch hat all drawn in faded marker—a product of the girls' childhood, he assumes. 

Spike fires up the television and grabs a blanket off the armchair before he cuts the lights and rejoins Buffy on the couch. She pushes at him until he takes the hint and sprawls across it longways—so she can lean back against his chest and face the screen—and then wraps both hands around her hot chocolate again.

"I hated this movie for years," she says as the opening sequence plays.

Spike hums, resting an arm casually over her thighs.

"Dawn  _ loved  _ it—it was so annoying. She made us watch it every day as soon as October came." Buffy shifts, propping her cheek against his bicep. "And then she got too old for it and started saying how lame it was, and I was slaying already, and I just…" she laughs sadly. "I  _ begged  _ to watch it that year, even once."

Spike rubs his thumb over a sliver of her hip bone, coaxing her.

"I came back from patrolling that night and everyone was asleep," Buffy says flatly. "So I just… put it on and watched it alone."

_ You won't anymore,  _ Spike thinks.  _ Just let me stay. _

He hooks his chin over her shoulder and nuzzles at her cheek, and kisses the bittersweet corner of her mouth. 

She lets him.

~*~

In the morning, Spike plucks toast out of the toaster and shakes out his hand when he burns the tips of his fingers on the bread. He spreads the butter and jelly, licking clean the side of the knife, and turns back to the pancakes cooking on the stove.

The stairs creak as Dawn comes downstairs.

"Oh," she says. "You're still here."

Spike nudges at the edge of a pancake with his spatula. "Buffy popped over to the store—said we're outta eggs, which is weird, 'cause I could've sworn we had half a carton yesterday."

"What're you gonna do, ground me?" Dawn's voice is flat. "You don't even live here."

Spike flips the pancake early. He turns around, leaning against the counter, and says, "I don't care that you ran around egging houses, nibblet. Hell, I hope you had a grand ole time with it."

Dawn is wringing the letterman jacket in her hands. "Great. I did. You got a point?"

"Was it your first time?" Spike asks.

Dawn's eyes widen.  _ "What?" _

Spike glances pointedly at the jacket. "You know…"

"Oh my God," Dawn says, high-pitched and—strangely defensive. "Did Buffy tell you to—"

"Oh, bloody hell!" Spike puts his hands up when he realizes. "Not  _ that.  _ I meant killing one, Christ."

Dawn sits down heavily on a stool. "Oh." She looks down, running a thumb over the jacket. "Yeah, it was."

Spike switches the burner off on the stove. "You okay?"

"Whatever," says Dawn. "It was just a vampire. Buffy's killed, like, a thousand."

Spike lets that hang, but if the thought that he might take it personally occurs to her, she doesn't apologize.

"... Buffy was so pissed I didn't know," Dawn says quietly. Still not looking up. "But he was nice. He said I was cute and beautiful and stuff and he thought I was funny."

Spike purses his lips.

Dawn laughs sadly. "I guess he was just saying all that stuff so he could…" She looks up. "I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, that's what you're doing, isn't it?"

Spike's stomach drops. "What?"

"You're only nice to me 'cause you wanna impress Buffy," Dawn tells him, her eyes like glass. "That's why you're around all the time. But she's never gonna fuck you, so you can just give it up already."

Spike swallows a hysterical sound trying to crawl up his throat. It lodges in his chest instead.

"I really let you down, sweet bit," he tells her.

Dawn blinks at him.

Spike walks around the island, coming to sit on the stool next to hers. He folds his hands on the counter and raises his eyebrows at her in earnest.

"I know Buffy'll never love me," he says. "I gave up on that long before Glory strung me up in chains. I'm just trying to be—trying to be something—" He wets his bottom lip. "I'm not here to settle a score, Dawn. My scale's weighed all the way down."

Dawn's throat bobs. "Then why?"

"'Cause you're worth saving, sweet bit." Spike smiles, softening his voice further. "Worth knowing. You're the best of it."

Dawn's bottom lip wobbles; tears well up in her eyes. Her voice cracks as she tells him, "I'm not! I'm not anything!"

Spike pulls her into a hug, his hand petting soothingly through her hair. "You are. Look, see? You're real, Dawnie—you're right here."

"He told me he must've liked me 'cause Buffy's my sister," she croaks.

"And you killed him for it," Spike points out. "Which is a good way to nip that sort of thing right in the bud."

She laughs miserably.

Spike tucks her hair away from her face where it's sticking to the tear tracks on her cheeks. He says, "I don't… know what to call it. I tried giving it some human word, but I'm not one. I just know I wanna look after you, nibblet—and it's not just because of Buffy."

Dawn's reply is muffled by his shirt.

"What's that?" he asks.

Dawn pulls away, sitting on her stool again with the jacket scrunched in her lap. "I mean, when Angel turned bad, he… turned bad. But you're just you."

Spike still doesn't know what she asked in the first place. He tells her, "I'm trying."

"I know," Dawn says. "That's good, right? I think trying makes you good."

Spike's throat feels warm. "You think so, do you?"

She looks down at the jacket in her lap.

"Hey," Spike says. "You gonna keep that?"

~*~

When Buffy finds them, smoke is already billowing from a bubblegum pink trash can on the back porch. Dawn is warming her hands by it despite the California midday balm; Spike is supervising from just inside the threshold, his skin tingling from the proximity to the direct light.

"Do I even wanna know?" Buffy asks wryly.

Dawn literally points a finger and says, "It was Spike's idea!"

Buffy ditches her armfuls of groceries on the floor, brushes her fingertips fleetingly across Spike's arm, and joins Dawn on the deck. "Uh huh."

"We're burning that wanker's jacket," Spike adds for clarity.

"Ooh, goodie." Buffy wraps her arms around Dawn's middle and hugs her from behind. "And it won't even set off the fire alarm this time."

"That part was my idea," says Dawn.

Buffy ruffles her hair as she pulls away.

"Ew, rude!" Dawn says. "God, you're so annoying."

Buffy says, "'Cause coming home to a literal fire is my idea of relaxation," and reaches for her hair again.

"Stoppp!" Dawn whines, trying in vain to squirm away from her. "Stop tickling me, you jerk!"

The bickering quickly dissolved into a laughter-filled chase around the backyard. Spike watches from inside the house—Buffy's hair like honey in the sunlight, turned a color he'll never touch. Dawn's white, perfect teeth because someone made them that way, the sound bubbling out from behind them, and a faint scar on her arm that she put there herself.

He watches. Buffy looks over at him once, her eyes glinting with something bright and good for the first time in a while, and he watches that too. 

He's glad it's a beautiful day.


	4. Chapter 4

"No, see, the burba weed's only spicy 'cause it's grown on consecrated ground, innit?" Spike is asking. He gestures vaguely at Anya. "It's like when you humans eat pineapple and it dissolves your tongue."

"That's incredibly disturbing," says Anya. She hands a customer their receipt. "And also inaccurate."

Spike says, "No, I saw that on the Food Network. Alton Brown's got this show—"

"Not the pineapple thing," Anya says dismissively. "You're wrong about the burba weed—sort of. But I can't really blame you—you're too young to know any better."

Spike scoffs indignantly, leaning back in his chair.

"There's no need to be embarrassed about being ignorant. When you grow up in Western Europe these days, everything's so focused on Christianity." Anya and Spike both glance over when the bell dings—it's just Tara, who makes a beeline for the restricted books in the back. "Burba weed works when it's grown in any place of great faith—you've been eating synagogue burba weed for like a month."

"Huh," Spike says thoughtfully. "Is it only religion, then, or—say some bloke was real jazzed about aliens being real and he grew it in his yard."

"Good question," Anya muses.

Spike slouches low in his chair and kicks his feet up next to the cash register, which Giles hates. "Say, do you think they taste different?"

"Ooh!" Anya says excitedly. "We could do a blind taste test. We'd probably need a couple of other vampires though."

"We could probably do it at Willy's," Spike says. "Maybe he'll make it a new special."

"That's the kind of forward-thinking that'll get you promoted," Anya praises.

Spike puts a hand to his chest. "Take that back! I'm a horrible employee."

Anya's, "Sorry," is perfunctory. "Let me know if Willy wants to buy in bulk. We do discounts for that."

Just then, Tara rushes past them again, her expression stormy.

"Woah there, pet," Spike calls after her. "Something wrong?"

"You do look terrible," Anya agrees.

Tara hesitates, her shoulders hunched, and looks over at them as she insists, "I-it's n-nothing."

Spike drops his feet to the floor and comes to stand next to Anya by the register. "Doesn't sound like nothing."

Tara chews on her bottom lip. She looks down at something in her hands, twirling it between her fingers, and says nothing.

"You can tell us," Anya encourages her. "There aren't any customers right now and I'm trying to invest more in my relationships with others."

"What she said," says Spike.

Tara relents, coming back over to face them, and holds out what was in her hands—it's some kind of dried flower with little pink buds.

"Oh, shit," says Anya.

Spike looks between the two. "What is it?"

"That's Lethe's Bramble," Anya explains. "It's for memory spells." She looks at Tara. "Where did you find that?"

"U-under my… pillow," Tara says. "After Halloween, but I—I didn't think… um, Dawnie said something to me today."

Spike looks at Anya pointedly, but she doesn't notice him. He gives it up and turns back to Tara instead. "You think that Red did it?"

"I don't know what to think," Tara says wetly. "I d-don't… I c-cant remember why she'd—oh, God, I can't remember."

"It's alright," Spike says gently. He winces, flattening his palms on the table. "I mean, it's not—but I know why, I think. I can help you."

Tara blinks at him, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

"You've been worried about how much magic she's using, right?" Spike prompts, raising an eyebrow. "You've been fighting about it. She nearly vaporized me a few months ago—do you remember that?"

Tara presses her fingertips to her temples. "I—I think I remember the spell. It was the… the sunlight one, right?"

"Yeah, that's the one." Spike keeps his eyes on her. "You saved me."

"I don't remember being angry." Tara curls her fingers, pressing with her knuckles instead. "I… we've been fighting?"

Spike says, "That's what it's looked like to me, anyway."

"Xander and I thought the same thing," Anya adds. "Especially after Halloween—you guys came to tell us you found Dawn, and you wouldn't even talk to Willow. I did think it was weird that you were back to normal the next day, but we figured you guys must've talked it out."

"Yeah, you were real pissed after Halloween," Spike recalls. "She wanted you to make nice, I expect."

_ "God,"  _ Tara says. She drops the bramble to the counter and scrubs both hands over her face. "I—I can't do this. I have to… I've gotta l-leave, right? How can I ever tr-trust her again?"

Anya's face is drawn soft with compassion. She reaches out and takes one of Tara's hands and tells her, "I've done a lot of vengeance spells on men who did stuff like this. I mean, if Xander did this to me, I'd kill him."

Dru used to play with Spike's mind all the time, especially in the early days. He'd liked it back then, but context is pointing to that particular anecdote being unhelpful.

"Would it help if we hugged?" Anya offers.

Tara nods; Anya flips up the gate and then opens her arms, squeezing Tara tightly.

"We're gonna figure it out," Anya promises. "I'm sure there's a counterspell we can use. And, hey, if you need somewhere to stay, we can put one of those air mattresses in my office! I’ve still got the apartment for another four months."

"I'd offer the crypt," Spike says lightly, "but if I were you, I'd take the indoor plumbing."

Tara's sniffle has some humor to it. "Th-thanks, you guys. I guess we'll see."

Tentatively, Spike reaches over and pats her on the back. She looks over at him and offers a watery smile.

Tara heads off after taking some time to collect herself, leaving the bramble behind with the two of them for safe-keeping.

Spike waits until she's at least half a block away before venturing, "So, this is one of those things where you're not supposed to tell anyone, right?"

"Yeah," Anya says, then pauses a beat. "You're gonna tell Buffy, aren't you?"

Spike scoffs defensively. "Of course not! I'm capable of—oh, bugger it. Like you're not gonna tell Xander."

Anya shrugs with one shoulder like,  _ you got me there.  _ "Just go find me some books on mind control."

"Yeah, alright."

~*~

_ Passions  _ is on commercial break when Buffy walks into the crypt the next day and deposits herself in his lap with a groan. She's still wearing her uniform; she shoves a soda cup into his hand with an implicit order to  _ hold this  _ and digs a burger out of her to-go bag.

"'Ello, love," Spike says wryly. "How was work, then?"

"Mm," she answers subverbally, leaning over to slurp from her straw. "Do you work today?"

"Sunset shift," Spike tells her. "Got a few hours."

The chicken tail on Buffy's hat smacks him on the face as she slouches lower. "I've gotta nap if I'm gonna patrol tonight. God, I hate opening."

"You and me both," he answers. "I just woke up, but I'll lay down with you."

Buffy's already inhaled half her burger while they talk. "Mm, I can sleep out here. Just turn down the volume a little."

Spike leans over and kisses her temple, murmuring, "I like laying down with you."

She tilts her head a little, leaning into it.

"It's almost over, anyway," Spike says, indicating the telly. "Looks like in ten or so."

"That works." She burps, covering her mouth with one hand. "Sorry."

Spike tightens his arm around her waist, unbothered. She plucks the soda cup from his hand and bumps the straw against his lips in offering—he shrugs to himself and tries a sip; the carbonation is interesting.

A fry is next, which smears ketchup onto his chin. He catches her fingertips in his mouth when he bites it, licking the salt from her skin with a flick of his tongue.

_ "Nap,"  _ Buffy scolds.

Spike huffs in self-defense. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Buffy glares at him and wipes the ketchup away with the pad of her thumb. 

"Anyway," Spike says, "I've got news for you. Did you want that before or after?"

"Ooh, gossipy news?" Buffy asks, and stuffs a handful of fries in her mouth.

Spike warns, "Yeah, but not the fun kind."

"Oh." Buffy swallows, takes a drink of soda, and wipes the grease off her fingers onto his trousers. "Is the world ending again?"

"Wouldn't count that as gossip, so, no."

"Let me nap in ignorance first, then."

Spike shrugs obligingly. She finishes her food while he watches the end of  _ Passions,  _ occasionally patting him on the knee when he snarks something at the characters, and then Spike shuts the telly off with the remote.

Buffy stands and stretches luxuriously, then starts stripping out of her clothes.

Spike, enjoying the view, says, "Still going in for that nap, then?"

Buffy hits him dead in the face with her bra without so much as glancing behind herself. "Just getting comfy."

She leaves her knickers on and nothing else, then vanishes down the ladder.

Spike gathers up her clothes—she'll complain about them later otherwise—and a book before he follows her. It's almost pitch black in the lower level; he uses his lighter to get a few candles burning on his side of the bed so he'll be able to read, then takes off his trousers and climbs in next to her.

Buffy hums happily and flops against his chest as soon as he's settled against the pillows. Her breasts are pressed lightly against his ribs, her hand tickling his side before coming to a rest near his hip.

She seems to mean it about wanting a nap. Spike plays idly with her hair, running it through his fingers so that it glints in the candlelight when the flames flicker right, and listens to her breathing even out.

After he's sure it won't disturb her to move, Spike flips open his book. Even with the candles, he has to shift into vamp face to be able to see well enough—and he does feel her stir a little at that. Her instincts thrumming at the possibility of a threat.

But she resettles. The arm around his middle tightens, hugging them closer together, tucking her face against his throat.

It hurts him a little—beneath the ribs. He presses a closed-mouthed kiss to the top of her head, careful to not catch her hair on his teeth, and holds the book in one cool hand so he can run the other down her back.

~*~

"I can't believe I'm saying this," Buffy is saying, their joined hands swinging between them as they walk, "but why do you even  _ play  _ for kittens if you can't eat them?"

"Because everyone plays for kittens, pet," Spike explains exasperatedly. He veers right so she can sidestep a puddle. "I can't be the only one who doesn't play for kittens."

Buffy gives him a look that says,  _ you can't be serious.  _ "Well what have you been doing with them?"

Spike grimaces reluctantly.

"Oh my God." Buffy stops in her tracks. "Is that why there are so many feral cats around Sunnydale?"

He edges away from her.

Buffy's hand-holding technique becomes a threat.  _ "Spike." _

"Everyone else eats them!" Spike protests. "How am I the bad guy here?"

"Oh my  _ God,"  _ Buffy repeats.

Spike asks, "Well what am I supposed to do?"

"Not play kitten poker!"

"Oh," Spike says, tugging away so he can cross his arms. "So you don't want me to have any friends, then?"

Buffy counters, "Tara and Anya are your friends. Do they play kitten poker?"

"Any friends who aren't women."

"Xander—"

"Hates me," says Spike.

"Well, Giles—"

"Comes over to watch soaps every now and then, yeah, but we're not exchanging Christmas cards."

Buffy puffs out her cheeks in frustration.

Spike raises an eyebrow in challenge.

"Ugh, we don't have time for this," Buffy relents, and snatches his hand back in a motion that could charitably be described as vindictive. "We're probably already late thanks to you."

Spike says, "Hey, it's not like I asked Seal Breath to pay a visit."

"Yeah, well, I still had to beat him up for you," Buffy says. "Which I am  _ so  _ not doing twice, by the way."

"But, baby, you're so hot when you're settling my gambling debts."

"And you're paying for my new name tag," Buffy continues, ignoring him. "It's the second one I've lost this month."

Spike says, "You're the one who decided to tackle me to the ground, love."

Buffy pins him against the tunnel wall. She trails her fingertips up the inside of his palm, batting her eyelashes sweetly, and says, "You liked it."

Spike drags his teeth over his bottom lip, flashing a bit of tongue. "So did you."

She pulls him along.

They get to the Magic Box basement entrance and head up the ladder.

Spike asks, "Why's Giles need to talk to you first, anyway? Seems redundant if we're all meeting after."

"I dunno," she says, frowning as she helps him out of the tunnel. "He sounded all fidgety like he gets."

"Rupey gets fidgety if you don't put your glass on a coaster," Spike says. "Doesn't exactly narrow it down."

"Be nice," she scolds half-heartedly.

Spike reels her in with an arm around her waist, pressing them back-to-front, and murmurs, "I know someone I wanna be nice to."

"Oh my God," Buffy whines, laughing despite herself and wriggling in a way that only rubs her arse against his crotch. "I smell like deep-fried cow!"

"Oh, yeah, baby." Spike nudges his hand down the front of her trousers, leaning down to nibble on her earlobe. "Keep talkin' dirty."

Buffy turns her head and bites hard on his bottom lip. "We're gonna be late."

Spike can hear at least five voices upstairs. He slips his other hand in between them and unhooks her bra. "We're already late."

She hums noncommittally.

"I'll let you hold me down," Spike offers. "We'll make it quick."

"You always let me hold you down," she accuses, but her hand is coming up to grip in his hair. "And you always  _ say  _ it'll be quick—"

"But you get greedy," he teases. Unbuttoning her shirt and stealing her bra, which he tucks in his jacket pocket. He trails a wet series of kisses down her neck and lets his voice go breathy. "'Oh, Spike, right there. Do that again, Spike.' And one 'again' leads to another…"

Buffy turns in his arms and starts working at his belt. "Boy, just think how quickly we'd go if you couldn't talk."

He kisses her hungrily, one hand shoved down the back of her trousers and the other coming up to squeeze her breast. 

She rolls onto the balls of her feet and pushes, and he falls back with her against a table; the contents resting on it clatter in protest, but he's not paying enough attention to care. He just wants to touch her, wants more of her skin.

"Fuck," she breathes, fumbling to push his jeans down his thighs. "Just—"

"Yeah," he agrees inanely, already half-gone from kissing her.

Buffy clears space behind him on the table—which he briefly thinks is odd, but then she's manhandling him out of the way so she can bend over, her forearms braced against it.

Spike's cock throbs almost painfully. He drapes himself over her, flicking his tongue out to tickle her earlobe, and teases, "You sure about this, love?" His hand skimming down her spine, caressing the edge of her rib cage before his fingers slip low enough to play with her clit. "Remember how you screamed last time I bent you over?"

Buffy takes his other hand by the wrist and sinks her teeth into the meat of his palm.

Spike moans, the pain blooming into pleasure. He fumbles to line himself up, teasing her with it a little and making her twitch impatiently, and then—

Spike's head snaps up at the faint sound of something upstairs. Something heavy hitting the ground.

"What was that?" he asks. "Did you hear—"

There's a split second in which he feels her going limp underneath him, and then everything goes black.

~*~

It's dark when he wakes up. He's laying on the ground, which is weird because he doesn't remember—

Huh. What  _ does  _ he remember?

He shifts, trying to suss out if he's hungover or something—but there's no nausea and his head doesn't hurt—and then his hand hits bare, warm skin instead of more ground.

There's a shriek, and  _ now  _ his head hurts, because he's been thrown across the room.

_ "Ow!"  _ he says, and has to scramble to the side on his hands and knees when several jars come smashing down from the shelf he hit. "Bloody—"

"Who are you?" asks a woman, the outline of whom he can barely make out in the dark. "What'd—what'd you do to me?"

He freezes warily. Pats himself all over and realizes that his trousers are undone and he's half-hard. "What'd you do to  _ me?"  _

"Oh my God." The woman stands hurriedly—he hears the sound of a zipper closing. "Stay away from me!"

He lifts his hips and does up his trousers too, using the shelf behind him to pull himself to his feet. It's odd—he hit his head pretty hard just now, but he feels fine. Well, aside from the obvious.

"No—I mean, yeah, I will," he tells her, putting his hands up, though he's not sure she can see him. "But—you don't know me?"

"Of course not!" she snaps. "I don't—" she hesitates, and her voice turns more frantic. "I don't know… me. Do you know me?"

There's something to her voice—something he likes hearing about it. But he can't—God, what's his name? What's—

"I don't think so," he says. "I'm—I can't remember—"

"Anything?" she asks. "But that doesn't make any—why were we all… triple-X-rated?"

He shakes his head. "Do you know where we are?"

"I… can't really see anything," she says. Then hastily, "But I'll know if you come closer, so don't—"

"I won't," he promises, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Let's just find a light switch, okay? Are you—you're dressed now?"

"... Yeah," she says. "Are you?"

"Yeah," he answers. 

They both edge away from each other, moving along opposite walls. She finds the switch first and turns it on without warning him—he winces, shielding his eyes.

The view isn't comforting. It's some kind of basement, it looks like—a storeroom, maybe, with all sorts of unsettling things in jars and unnaturally colored liquids in vials. He's standing near what looks like a trap door—probably to nowhere he wants to be.

"Oh, fuck," says the woman. "What the fuck is this place?"

She's beautiful. It's not a helpful thing to say, he knows—he doesn't wanna make her even more uncomfortable. But, God. He looks at her and he  _ feels— _

He has to know her. There has to be something—

"Your clothes," he blurts, and she blinks at him in confusion before looking down at herself. "Looks like some kind of uniform, doesn't it?"

"Huh. Yeah." She frowns. "But no nametag. It's ripped, see?" 

She points at the place above her left breast where one would normally be, but he can't see any damage from here.

"And what's with your outfit?" she asks, waving a judgemental hand at his general person. "Are you in a band or something?"

"Well, once again, I've got no sodding clue who I—oh," he says. "Am I British?"

She says, "Sounds that way. Hey, check your pockets and stuff. Maybe we've got wallets or something."

He does like she suggests—the first thing he finds is a bra, presumably hers, which he awkwardly stuffs back into his pocket. But the other one  _ has  _ got a wallet.

"Here!" he says, flashing it in front of her before he flips it open.

The first thing he notices is an obscene amount of cash—mostly in small bills. Fleetingly— _am I a stripper? Is this a bachelorette party gone wrong?_ But then he notices the second thing, which is all the pictures.

The first one is just of the woman. She's making a grossed-out face and slightly out of focus—there's someone else's hair in the foreground, making it seem like maybe the picture's been trimmed down to fit in the plastic sleeve. 

The second picture is of her, a man with platinum blonde hair, and a brunette girl who can't be older than sixteen. The brunette is holding her arm at an awkward angle out of frame—probably the picture taker. 

The third, fourth, and fifth pictures are of the same three people and look like they were printed from a photo booth. In the fifth, the brunette is trying to lick the side of the woman's face while she shoves her—and the man as collateral damage—out of the booth. The final picture is of the same man and two other women, neither of whom he recognizes.

"What is it?" she asks. "Does it have an ID?"

"Nope," he says, and tosses it across the room to her. "Plenty of you, though."

She catches it, frowning, and flips through it. Her expression changes too rapidly to follow. "Oh. That's—that's me?"

"Yeah," he says. "Am I…?"

"Yeah, you're definitely this guy," she confirms. She looks over at him, her expression less guarded than before. "I guess we know each other."

His stomach flutters hopefully. "Do you think that we—?"

"Maybe," she allows. Her lips quirk. "I—I mean, probably, right? We were probably—but, ugh, in someone's _ basement?"  _ She tilts her head and says thoughtfully, "Kinky."

Oh, God. He's probably in love with her, isn't he?

He clears his throat and asks, "Nothing on you?"

"Nah," she says, and throws the wallet back. "... Which is weird, right? I mean, is someone fucking with us?"

He takes a cautious step towards her. "If they were, why would they leave those pictures?"

"I'm not sure," she says, then smiles tentatively. "But… maybe we should figure out something to call each other? At least for now, I mean."

"Mm," he teases, quirking his lips. "I dunno, 'hey, you,' is pretty romantic."

She huffs out a laugh. "Shut up."

"Oh, you're bossy, are you?" he teases, tilting his head playfully. "I suppose I like that."

She smacks him lightly on the chest. "I'm not bossy!"

He raises an eyebrow at her.

She pouts at him, stomping her foot, and says,  _ "Fine,  _ I'm bossy. And I think I'm…" she contemplates for a minute, then brightly declares, "Joan!"

He snorts reflexively. 

"What?" she demands. "I like it! I feel like a Joan."

"No, no, it's grand, love," he reassures her. "It's very… saintly?"

"You think it's boring," she says defensively.

He tells her, "You can name yourself however you like, pet. That's the plus side of the traumatic memory loss."

"Well, good," she says, crossing her arms over her chest. "What's your name, then?"

"Hmm, to go with Joan?" he muses. "How about Gary?"

Joan gapes indignantly and smacks him again. "You  _ are  _ making fun of me! You're the worst!"

"I'm not!" he insists, grabbing at her wrist when she goes in for a third hit. "I just think we should match is all! Doesn't Gary sound like he'd date a Joan?"

"Not anymore," Joan threatens, but she takes a step forward when he tugs lightly on her hand. "I'm breaking up with you."

His eyes drop down to her mouth, which looks… God, it's almost like he's hungry. Like he wants to put his teeth on her.

She's staring at him with the same intensity, her fingers flexing restlessly until he lets her go and she hooks them in the collar of his shirt.

"Okay," she whispers, pressing her palm flat against his chest. "Definitely dating."

He leans in, drawn to her, centimeters from a kiss when—

"Gary?" Joan asks worriedly. Her hand slides to the left. "I can't feel—"

The ceiling creaks above them.

Gary looks up, shushing her quickly and straining his ears. "Wait, do you hear that?"

"What?" Joan asks.

"Sounds like there's people up there," he tells her. If he listens closely, he can make out their conversation. "They're talking about… spells?"

"Wow," Joan says skeptically. "You have really good hearing."

Gary shrugs and heads for the stairs. "We should go up, right? See what's going on."

"Woahhh," Joan says, grabbing his arm and tugging him backwards. "What if whoever's up there is who put us down here? We should get weapons or something."

He blinks at her. "Damn. You're clearly the brains of this relationship, love."

She wrinkles her nose at him. "Just get something to hit people with."

Gary looks around, but all he finds is some kind of statue—very prominent prick, not that he's judging—which he dutifully hands over to her.

Joan takes it, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, you're the one who tossed me across the room when we woke up," Gary argues, putting his hands up. "I'll gladly play second fiddle, thanks."

This logic apparently satisfying her, Joan leads the way up the stairs.

There's a door at the top, which is unlocked. She counts down to three with her fingers—he flings it open for her and she charges into the room, which immediately results in six strangers screaming bloody murder at them.

Gary stumbles directly into her when she stops in the middle of the room, the statue raised above her head; it smacks him on the jaw, which smarts something sodding awful.

A handsome middle-aged man is standing protectively in front of what looks like one of the women from Gary's wallet—though her hair's different now. A redhead and a dark-haired man are clutching at each other near a cash register, and the other woman and the teenager from the wallet photos are backed up against a row of shelves.

"Bloody hell!" says the older man. "Who are you people?"

Joan blinks, lowering the statue. "We… were hoping you'd tell us."

"Oh, great!" says the dark-haired man. "There's more of us."

Gary asks, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, we've all lost our memories!" the first woman from the wallet says cheerfully. "Isn't that what happened to you?"

"... Yeah," says Gary. "We woke up in the basement. Not much to go on, identity-wise. Have you all had any luck?"

"Ah, some," says the middle-aged man. "We know that I'm called Rupert, and this is my fiancee, Anya. We seem to own this shop."

"And I'm Willow, and this is Alexander!" the redhead says. "Oh, and that's Tara—she and I both go to UC Sunnydale. Who are you two?"

Joan is fixated on the teenager, who she clearly recognizes from Gary's wallet, too. Her expression seems thoughtful.

"Well, I'm Gary," Gary says. "And this is Joan."

"It—it seems that several of us are connected," Rupert says. "Did you two, um—do you suspect you know each other?"

The teenager has noticed Joan staring. Her nostrils flare defensively as she asks, "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"Sorry," says Joan. She laughs nervously. "It's just that—well, I'm pretty sure we know each other, and you just… feel kind of familiar?"

"You feel familiarly  _ annoying,"  _ retorts the teenager, and, oh, yeah. That makes sense.

"You're mini-Joan!" Gary tells her.

Joan glances at him. "Oh my God, totally! Show them the wallet."

"Come again?" asks Rupert.

Gary flips open the wallet—everyone gathers around to look. "This should fill in a few puzzle pieces."

They take a moment to look through the photos.

"Well, that certainly confirms we all know each other—at least to some degree," Rupert says. "Although it doesn't necessarily confirm in what way."

Joan says, "Well, we're pretty sure me and Gary are dating." 

She loops their arms together and leans against his shoulder.

"And you're kid sis," Gary tells the teenager.

"My name's Dawn," she says.

Tara says, "And the three of us are friends?"

"Seems likely," says Gary. He slips his hand into Joan's; she shivers and reaches over with her other hand to rub at the back of his palm.

"You're cold," she tells him, frowning.

"Sorry, pet," he murmurs, and something feels natural about the motion of leaning down to kiss the top of her head. 

She tilts her face up into it, smiling shyly at him. 

"See, this lends credence to my 'I have a pissed off brother' theory," Alexander tells Willow. "Do you look at me and wanna do that?"

"Oh," Willow tells him earnestly, "not really, sorry."

"Perhaps we should get back to the issue at hand," Rupert says.

Joan turns to look at him, leaning her temple against Gary's shoulder. "Yeah, good idea. I think our best bet is probably the hospital, right? I mean, if something happened to all of us."

"We had kinda wondered if maybe a spell went wrong," Tara offers. "Since… we do all seem to know each other, and we're in the shop."

"Oh," Joan says, looking around. "This  _ is  _ a magic shop. Is magic real?"

Tara says, "I—I think so."

That'd explain all the stuff they found downstairs, too.

"Well, I guess it'd make sense if that's how this all happened," Joan says. "'Cause I don't  _ think  _ this is how amnesia is supposed to work. I mean, not that I'm a doctor or anything."

"You could be!" Dawn points out. "How would we know?"

Joan plucks at her uniform pointedly.

"... Right," says Dawn.

"Well, if it's magic, how are we supposed to fix it?" Gary asks.

"That's the predicament, you see," Rupert answers. "Presumably, at least one of us has some magical talent, and there are plenty of books that—that contain incantations and the like. But the question is, of course—"

"Which combination," Anya concludes. "Personally, my intuition tells me that I'm the one who can do spells. But I can't actually remember how to do any, and there are too many books to go through."

Joan is still leaning against Gary's side. She stands up straighter, keeping a hold on his hand, and says, "So we all grab a book and start looking—easy!"

Rupert says, "Ah, perhaps—Joan, was it? Perhaps we should consider seeking outside help? The hospital, or—or Anya and I may have a colleague we could get in touch with. Surely there must be an address book or something somewhere in the shop."

Joan shrugs and tells him, "You can do what you want. I mean, personally I'm not sure I'd wanna start calling magic people I work with and tell them I got myself all cursed, but that's just me."

"... Books all around, then," says Rupert.

There's a big table towards the rear of the shop that nearly everyone can fit around—Gary and Joan have to share a chair with her sitting half in his lap, which suits him just fine; he wraps an arm around her waist while they work.

Dawn pulls her chair up next to them. She keeps staring at Gary, which makes the back of his neck prickle while he tries to skim his spell book.

"Can I see the wallet again?" she asks eventually.

Joan reaches into Gary's jacket pocket for her idly—she hits the bra and shoots him an accusatory look, gaping indignantly as she looks between her loose-fitting shirt and his face. He shrugs, all,  _ wasn't a good time to bring it up,  _ and fishes the wallet out from the other side. 

"Thanks," Dawn says after he hands it over. She flips through the photos slowly, tracing her fingers over the matte plastic, and says, "I guess we were happy, huh?"

"I think we are," Joan says reassuringly, her tone gentle and warm. She reaches across Gary to brush the hair away from Dawn's face. "Don't worry—I'm sure we will be again, when we fix this."

Dawn smiles, and fondness bubbles up through Gary's chest. He knows that he should be worried, and unsettled—that there's so much he can't remember, that he's not even sure this is really his name. But he thinks he has friends, and a kid sister.

He thinks he's in love.

None of this can be that bad when he's got all that.

A little while later, Joan groans in frustration and slumps against Gary's side, flipping her book shut decisively. "I don't think Joan is big with the research. I'm  _ bored.  _ Doesn't anyone else just wanna—I dunno,  _ do  _ stuff?"

"I'm something to do," Gary offers on reflex, then immediately turns red with horror at his own brashness.

Alexander makes a choking sound.

Joan smacks him on the chest, which he suspects might be just as reflexive, and says, "Not in front of Dawn!"

"I—I don't care," Dawn blusters. "I'm, like, seventeen, probably. I bet I know all about sex and stuff."

Joan narrows her eyes. "You  _ better  _ not."

Anya asks Rupert, "How come you don't ask me to have impulsive sex anymore?"

Rupert's face is the picture of proper Englishman displeasure. "There is no way you could possibly know that to be true."

Gary snorts. "Except for the everything about you, mate."

"Hey!" Anya protests. "Don't insult my fiance! We're supposed to be friends."

"Yeah, and I prob'ly hate him," Gary says, gesturing at Rupert. "He's all stodgy, and is anyone gonna point out he's twice your age?"

"I did think someone should say that," Tara admits under her breath to Willow.

Anya frowns defensively. "Well, maybe I'm older than I look."

Alexander asks, "While we're on the subject, does anyone else think it's weird that these two are both British? I mean, none of us are British."

"Oh, that's true!" Willow says excitedly. "Maybe you guys know each other too. I mean, besides through Anya."

Gary asks, "How would we possibly—oh, God." He glances at Rupert with distaste. "You don't figure you an' me—"

"Older brother, perhaps?" Rupert offers.

Anya offers, "There is a ruggedly handsome resemblance."

Gary scoffs, dragging his eyes over the other man's prim and proper appearance. Not exactly in line with Gary's apparent taste for black leather. 

_ "Father,"  _ he sneers. "God, how I must hate you."

Rupert draws up in offense. "What could I possibly have done?"

"There's always something," Gary says. "Hell, let's start with you putting the moves on my friend. It's disgusting."

"Again, there's an astounding lack of evidence with which to support your conclusions. I think we all—"

"I mean,  _ God,"  _ Gary continues, really working himself up. "Did you even wait until Mum was in the  _ ground  _ before you started shagging the jail bait?"

"—need to stop making  _ quite _ so many unfounded assumptions—"

Gary turns to Joan and says, "I bet you hate him too."

Joan puts her hands up. "Oh, no—you're not dragging me into this again."

"—about our identities!"

Silence settles over the table for a brief moment.

"Hey!" Anya says again, this time with excitement. "This is the book."

"Really?" Rupert asks, leaning over. "How can you be sure?"

Anya responds in a language that  _ certainly  _ isn't English, and then a rabbit appears on the center of the table.

Gary, Anya, and Alexander all shriek.

Joan, whose arm Gary is clutching for dear life, raises a fondly judgemental eyebrow.

Gary clears his throat and sits up straight again.

Joan kisses him sweetly on the cheek, which almost makes the embarrassment worth it.

"So, ah, perhaps that was  _ not  _ the book, dear," Rupert says.

"Oh, God, oh, God," Anya says desperately, flipping to a new page. "Put it back!”

Gary tells her, "It's… alright, pet. It's only a rabbit."

"How could you say something so hurtful?" Anya asks, on the verge of tears. "Oh my God—" she says another spell, and a second rabbit—this one with cute little black patches—appears at her feet. "Make it  _ stop!" _

"Perhaps a different book, dear?" Rupert asks placidly.

Joan tugs on Gary's sleeve—when he looks over, she's pouting. "I thought  _ I  _ was 'pet.'"

Gary smiles lopsidedly and teases, "Oh, is someone jealous?"

"No," she says—too quickly.

Gary touches his lips to her temple. "Not to worry, pet. I'm not her type, anyway—clearly she likes 'em older."

"Hey," Joan says warily. "You're supposed to say she's not  _ your  _ type."

A rabbit materializes in Gary's lap. He gently lifts it onto the table instead.

"Well, she's stubborn and blonde like you, love," he argues. "So by all accounts, she  _ is  _ my type."

Joan scrunches her mouth to the side like she's deciding if she's gonna stay mad at him. "But I'm  _ more  _ your type, right?"

"No one holds a candle, baby," Gary agrees, and it doesn't feel like a lie, exactly—even if he's not sure what draws him to her so strongly. 

His thoughts do keep drifting to biting her. Her neck is so pretty, so  _ right there. _

It must be a thing for them, sexually. He wonders if it'd be too forward to ask.  _ Hey, just by-the-by, do you get the sense that you get real hot for it when— _

Then Dawn screams, and there's a living skeleton brandishing a sword between their table and the cash register, and Gary's mostly not thinking about the biting thing anymore.

Joan's reaction is nearly instantaneous—she flips the table over with impressive force, which sends several rabbits tumbling to the ground and the table hurtling directly into the skeleton.

Bones shatter and fly everywhere. The table cracks against the counter and—thankfully for Rupert and Anya's shop—loses the conflict.

Silence falls over the group. Anya, who is standing on a chair with the same book still held open, says,  _ "Penis." _

"Darling," Rupert says through his teeth. "Can we agree now that this is not a helpful book?"

_ "No,"  _ Anya answers hysterically. "This book  _ made  _ the little fluffers and this book's gonna send 'em back."

Tara stammers, "D-do you think maybe—"

"Fuck me," Gary says wonderously, as soon as he's capable of speech again. "I'm dating a  _ superhero." _

Joan is grinning in delighted disbelief, which is a stark contrast in tone to the mysterious green fog that is crawling its way across the ceiling and Gary is choosing to ignore.

"Yeah," she says. "I think I know why Joan's not the book-y one."

Gary's hand slides halfway up her thigh. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Joan snorts dismissively, but her cheeks turn a shade pinker. "You can only remember seeing stuff for, like, the past thirty minutes."

"Hard to imagine you topping that, love," Gary tells her. "But if you wanted to top—"

"Hey!" Anya shouts. "Lady who can throw stuff really far! Throw something at  _ that." _

"Fuck  _ me,"  _ says Joan, but not in the same way Gary did.

Gary starts inching slowly to his right. "Dawn, get behind us."

"Yeah-huh," Dawn says, clutching the back of his jacket.

Anya is flipping frantically through the pages. "I can fix this! I can—"

"Put down the  _ fucking  _ book!" Joan snaps. 

The terrifying nightmare creature roars.

Much more timidly, Joan adds, "And run!"

Which they do.

It's a mad scramble to the door, but the creature's head—oh, god,  _ one  _ of its heads?—perks up and it swings its tail, knocking over a display table and cutting off their exit.

Gary dives behind the checkout counter instead, pulling Dawn with him—the others follow closely after. Joan brings up the rear, but she comes to crouch on Dawn's other side once everyone is safe and hidden from view.

"The good news is… I don't think it has eyes?" Willow offers.

Alexander asks, "How is that good news? How is anything good news anymore?"

"It—it probably can't see us," Tara offers. "If we stay quiet and don't move."

Cautiously, Rupert peers over the counter—the creature screeches and he quickly ducks back down.

"Are you  _ happy  _ now?" he asks Anya in a furious whisper. "Look what you've done, you lunatic woman!"

Anya huffs, brandishing her book. "Don't blame me, you snobby, snotty, thinks-he's-so-great kinda jerk! And I feel compelled to take some vengeance on you!"

She smacks him over the head with the tome.

"Ow! _ God."  _ Rupert glares at her. "No  _ wonder  _ I'm leaving you!"

On the one hand, this doesn't seem relevant to not getting eaten. On the other hand, Gary and the others all turn to eavesdrop raptly.

"What?" Anya asks.

Rupert reaches into his suit jacket and brandishes an envelope. "Look! A one-way ticket back to London and  _ out  _ of this engagement."

Anya gasps woundedly and, blinking furiously, rips her ring off and throws it across the room.

It clatters against the linoleum and the creature screeches again.

"Now look what you did!" Anya accuses. "That thing is gonna eat my ring!"

Tears are streaming down Dawn's face. She looks between Gary and Joan and says, "I—I don't w-wanna die!"

"You're not gonna," Joan says fiercely. She brushes the hair away from Dawn's face. "We're gonna take care of you, okay? Nothing's gonna happen to you."

Gary reaches over and squeezes Joan's shoulder; she glances at him and nods resolutely.

"Does anyone else miss the skeleton?" Alexander asks.

"We've just gotta think," Joan tells them. "It's gotta have some weakness, right? Like, if it can't see, maybe it's—it's really sensitive to the light, right? Like… moles."

"That is  _ not  _ a mole," says Alexander.

The creature roars; there's the sound of something being smashed, or at the very least knocked over.

Rupert is flipping furiously through a book.

"Maybe we can sneak past it," Joan whispers. "If we're really quiet. Oh! Or if we cause a distraction."

Willow jokes, "One of us getting eaten would be pretty distracting."

"No one's getting eaten," Joan says, determined. "I'll distract it."

A momentary silence, punctured by another ear-bleeding screech.

"Love," Gary says,  _ "no." _

Joan's smile is bittersweet. "I'm bossy, remember?" She reaches out to cup the side of his face. "You like that."

Dawn begs, "I don't want you to go. What if—"

"Dawnie, I have to," Joan says. "I'm super strong, right? I've got the best chance of giving this thing a run for its money."

"We can just hide back here," Gary argues. "Maybe Dad can use the book—"

Joan isn't listening. She kisses Dawn on the forehead, sweet and quick, and then catches Gary by the mouth.

He melts into her, a hand tangling in her hair, pleading for her to stay.

Joan slips her hand into his jacket pocket—the one with the bra.

"Hang onto this for me," she tells him, and pulls away. "I want it back."

Her hair slips through his fingers so gently it hurts. She turns to address the entire group and says, "Okay, here's the plan—I'm gonna try and draw that thing to the back, towards the basement. Hopefully I can hide out down there until you guys find a way to get rid of this thing."

"There's a door," Gary recalls. "Near where we woke up—a trap door."

"Even better," Joan says, smiling encouragingly at him like,  _ see, I probably won't die!  _ "As soon as it's distracted, you guys make a break for the front, but stay—"

"Vargas… fenta… monta… warray," says Rupert, and there's a static  _ pop  _ followed by the sudden dissipation of the green fog that's been hovering above their heads.

Cautious silence. Slowly, as a unit, they all crawl over to the counter and peer over the top—there's no sight of so much as a cottontail. 

Everyone sinks back to the floor in a collective sigh of relief.

"Well," Joan says, sounding almost disappointed. "Made that whole speech for nothin'," and then Gary's kissing her again.

She squeaks before kissing back with fervor. 

A lot of fervor. Gary ends up nearly on his back, Joan pressing him against the half-wall of the checkout counter, one of her knees digging into his hip.

_ "Wow,"  _ says someone—probably Alexander, because the voice is deep but not dripping with fatherly disapproval.

Gary doesn't care. Joan's alive—they're all alive, and they're gonna find out who they really are and he'll have this every day forever, maybe. He hopes they were serious, or at least that they will be now. Surviving certain death should bring them closer. Maybe he could buy a ring.

God, her neck smells amazing. He nuzzles at her throat, tugging at her collar so he can kiss and nip at the place her neck joins her shoulder.

Someone screams.

For the second time in his short memory, Joan throws Gary across the room.

It dazes him this time, when his head smacks against the far wall of the employee area. But when the white-out pain clears, his vision's somehow  _ too  _ focused—the opposite of swimming like he thinks it's supposed to be, after a brain injury.

One of the women says, "Oh my God, what  _ is  _ that?"

Gary looks around frantically—some new side-effect of that damn book?—but when he tries to get to his feet and they all scramble further away from him, he realizes what they're looking at.

Just not why.

"What's—" he winces, rubbing the back of his head. God, it's like someone drove an ice pick through his skull. "Joan?"

She's staring at him with—it's indescribable. He thinks he should know it, maybe, with that same nagging urge that told him to kiss the top of her head and put himself between the bratty teenager and the thing with claws. 

There's a thin trickle of blood glistening on the side of her neck.

Alexander breaks the silence. He raises an accusatory finger and asks, "You guys all saw that, right? You all saw this face do the—" He makes fake fangs with two fingers of each hand.  _ "Argh!  _ With his teeth?"

Gary blinks at them. "What're you on about? Joan, what happened to your—"

"Oh, God," she says shakily. "What's  _ wrong  _ with me?"

Dawn quickly reaches out to her, touching her knee. "Nothing! Maybe you didn't know?"

"Know  _ what?"  _ Gary asks.

"How could you  _ not  _ know?" Alexander retorts. "I mean, all it takes is a stiff breeze and—"

"I must hate myself," Joan says faintly. "I mean, how could I—with…"

Gary demands, "Will someone tell me what the  _ fuck  _ is going on?"

The quiet, again. Then Anya, who is clutching at Rupert's arm, says, "Gary… you're a vampire."

"What?" he asks. He puts a hand to his mouth—all jagged, sharp teeth. "No, I—I can't be."

"We… we all saw you," Tara says. "You—your face, it—it changed right before…"

"You  _ bit  _ me," Joan says wetly. She raises a trembling hand to her mouth with wide, wounded eyes. "I couldn't feel your heartbeat."

Gary's chest is tight with panic. He scans their faces, looking for anything besides terror, and finds them all lacking.

"But maybe I'm—" he says pleadingly. "Maybe I'm good. Maybe they're not—"

"You  _ bit  _ me," Joan repeats.

God, her neck. He'd wanted it so badly. He'd thought  _ she— _

"But the wallet," he says, his voice going weaker. "Didn't you—didn't you say we looked happy? I thought we looked…"

Joan's expression falters. She's stopped bleeding, but he thinks he can only tell that because—because of what he is.

He stands, slowly, his back to the shelves and his head throbbing and nothing beating in his chest but still hurting.

"I can't be evil, can I?" he begs her, all the words clogging in his throat. "How can I be evil when I—when I feel this way about you?"

Joan's lips part in disbelief. She rises too, taking a tentative step towards him. "When you—"

Something crunches under Joan's shoe, and it's like being held underwater by the back of the neck.

~*~

The first thing he remembers is that he loves her.

The second thing is that she doesn't love him back.

~*~

Spike knows how to read Buffy's face again—the confusion, horror, panic. The grief. The way it all burns away into anger when she really looks at him as the memories filter back in—like it's somehow his fault she has to feel any of it at all.

He hadn't realized, really—how well he'd learned her. Until it was all peeled away.

She takes a step backwards and says, "Oh my God."

Spike tries, "Buffy—"

"Oh my  _ God,"  _ she says again. "It's—it's  _ so  _ not what you guys are thinking! We—we just—" she laughs hysterically. "Wow, I mean, obviously we're not actually—I don't know why we even—"

"Buff," Xander says quietly.

His voice is firm enough that she follows his line of sight, and Spike does too. 

There's something under Buffy's heel—a crystal, maybe? That must have been what she stepped on right before… 

Tara is staring at Willow with her jaw clenched so tightly it trembles. It's amazing, though—how she doesn't look beaten down. There's a righteousness to the hurt.

But it's a lot of hurt.

She rushes out of the store, her coat pulled tight around her and all the little braids in her hair swaying with her footfalls.

Willow is crying. She moves to go after her, but Anyanka is standing in her way.

"I think you've done enough," Anya says coolly, and the tone is all demon but the look in her eyes, well—that's the same human who does a cash register dance every night, who held Tara's hand when she gave her her memories back the first time. "Don't you?"

Willow looks for a moment like there's a hex on her tongue, but she swallows it. Her eyes squeeze shut and she sinks back down to the ground.

Anya turns on her heels and follows Tara outside.

It's like that fog is back. Buffy won't look anyone in the eye.

"... C'mon, Will," Xander says eventually. "Let's go."

He helps her to her feet—drags her, really—and Spike's never been Harris' biggest fan, but he respects that, right then. The loyalty, even when Red's the one who's buggered it all to hell. You don't turn on your own.

Giles watches them leave. The bell chimes as pleasantly as always when the door shuts, and then he says, "Ah, Buffy, if—"

Her head whips up, like her memory's still been filtering back in and she just got to the part with him in it.

The look snaps his mouth shut.

"A one-way ticket, huh?" Buffy asks vacantly.

Giles wets his bottom lip, glancing helplessly around the shop. "I hadn't meant for it to—to happen like this. I hope you understand."

Buffy's head jerks in a nod. She purses her lips and glances up at the ceiling and laughs bitterly and says, "Spike."

It takes two tries for him to answer, "Yeah?"

"Will you walk Dawn home?" she asks, still looking above them. "I think me and Giles should talk."

Bitterly, _ Aren't you afraid what people will think? _

"... Yeah, 'course." Spike shoves his hands into his pockets, makes eye contact with Dawn, and tilts his head for the door. "C'mon, bit."

Dawn follows without complaint, which means she's still shaken up from the ordeal too. They get half a block uptown before she says anything.

"Does it hurt?" she asks. Her arms are crossed around her middle, more like she's hugging herself than anything. 

Spike fishes around in his pockets for his cigarettes. "Plenty of shit hurts, bit."

"I mean that you had it," she tells him. "And… now you don't."

Spike takes the time to tap the cig on the side of the pack. He fumbles with the lighter a few times, letting the spark mis-catch because it's something else for his hands to do. There aren't any people around.

"Yeah," he says, and takes the first drag.

"Do you think there's a version of Buffy that gets to be happy?"

In the deepest cavity of his chest, Spike's not sure that demons know how to do happy. Satisfaction, of course. Love, if you're made a little wrong. Pleasure, revelry. All those words that are a little sicker or a little blander. 

He thinks of Buffy's face when she's right on the edge and he's giving it to her good, or that laugh that turns into a snort and means he's about to get a backhand to the ribs for his trouble. Her smile when he fixes the coffee just right or gets up to shut off the telly for her when they've lost the remote again.

And thinks, _She is, isn't she?_ _God, please tell me she is._

"I dunno, nibblet," he answers, because she deserves to hear it told straight.

Dawn looks away, out over the deserted streets. "Is your car around?"

Spike clears his throat. "It's at Restfield."

"Oh," she says. "... Long walk."

"Would've driven if, you know." He gestures vaguely with the cigarette, which makes him realize he's forgotten to smoke it. "But, hey—reckon DQ's still open?"

Her expression brightens—mostly for his benefit, he expects. "Oh my God, totally! Last one there's a rotten egg!"

She takes off like a shot—all that leftover adrenaline from nearly being eaten.

"Oi!" Spike shouts, breaking into a moderate jog to keep up. "You know how creepy this looks—man in black chasing a little girl?"

"Then catch up!"

Well, no arguing with that.

~*~

They take a break at the Dairy Queen, then walk the rest of the way to Spike's car and drive the last bit to the house. 

"Do you think Buffy'll be mad if I stay up to hear?" Dawn asks.

Spike says, "Think she'll have bigger fish to fry."

Dawn shrugs and turns on the telly.

It's not that much longer before Buffy gets home, anyway. She looks tired, and like she cried a little on the way. One of her eyebrows goes up when she meets Spike's eye— _ I do know what time it is and you're gonna pay for it later. _

Dawn was slouching over while they watched the Discovery Channel, but she sits up when Buffy comes to stand across from them.

"Is Giles really leaving?" Dawn asks.

Buffy says, "Yeah, he is."

Dawn ventures, "But, like, he's coming back, right? I mean, he's just taking a vacation or something?"

"Um." Buffy sits down on the coffee table, leaning forward with her forearms braced on her knees. "No, he's… he's moving back home. You know, to London."

On the telly,  _ FBI Files  _ is launching into yet another investigation of a kidnapped girl. Spike surreptitiously hits the power button from the remote.

"I thought Sunnydale was his home," Dawn says, her voice gone small. "I thought we were…"

"I think it…" Buffy hesitates. "It was a little different, right? England's where he grew up and everything."

"Is he—is he mad at you or something?" Dawn asks. "Did we do something?"

Buffy breathes out shakily. "No, Dawnie, he's not mad. He—he just said that it's time, you know? I—I don't really need a Watcher anymore, and Anya can run the shop—I think she's gonna have a field day, actually."

Yeah, Anya'll be thrilled. 

"But that's  _ stupid,"  _ says Dawn. Her hands curl up into fists as her nostrils flare. "Why didn't you make him stay?"

"Dawn," Buffy says wearily. "I'm really tired. Can we—"

"Did you even  _ ask?"  _ she demands.

Spike says, "Bit."

"It doesn't matter," Buffy tells her. "It's not up to me."

"It does matter! He can't just leave." Dawn lifts her hand in an aborted gesture. "You've gotta tell him you need him. You've gotta tell him you're not okay!"

Buffy frowns. "Dawn, I'm—we're gonna be fine."

Dawn scrubs a frustrated hand across her cheeks and mutters, "Why does everyone leave?"

"That's—" Buffy reaches for her, taking both of her hands. "That's not true."

"Angel and Riley left," Dawn says miserably. "And Dad, and Mom's gone too. And now Giles."

Buffy purses her lips around a bittersweet smile, bringing a hand up to brush the hair from Dawn's face, and says, "I'm still here. I'm not goin' anywhere."

"But you're lying," Dawn says flatly, and Buffy's face smoothes out in shock. "One day you're gonna have to go away, aren't you? You're always trying to."

"I'm not  _ trying,"  _ Buffy argues. "How could you even—"

"You didn't even have to think about it." Dawn pulls back; Buffy's hand falls away. "You couldn't even remember who you were and you wanted to go."

Spike says, "That's not what happened, nibblet."

"'Cause it's your job," Dawn tells Buffy. "'Cause when you're the hero you don't have a choice, right?"

"Not a good one," says Buffy.

Dawn scrubs her hands across her face, pushing her fingers into her hair. When she looks up, her eyes are red. "Then you can't promise. You  _ can't." _

Buffy says, "You're right."

Dawn sniffles miserably.

"But I promise, it would never be because of you, okay?" Buffy takes one of Dawn's hands again, palm to palm. "I love you, Dawnie. You're the only—" Her eyes flick briefly to Spike. "You're the best thing. You're my sister."

There's a moment where Spike thinks it won't be enough, and then Dawn nods shakily.

Buffy touches at the shell of her ear. "Okay?"

"Okay," Dawn mutters, leaning into her hand.

~*~

Dawn goes up to bed shortly after, leaving Buffy and Spike facing each other in the silence.

Spike says—

"I can't," Buffy tells him. She laughs helplessly, glancing up. "I—I just can't."

He follows her up the stairs instead.

She sheds her uniform, leaving it in a pile in front of the hamper, and wraps herself in a towel she'd left to dry draped over the back of her chair. Spike takes off his coat and leaves it where the towel used to be.

Buffy glances at him. There's nothing on her face, but she leaves the bathroom door open when she turns the shower on.

Spike gets a fresh towel from the linen closet. He checks that Dawn's hallway door is closed and locks her entrance to the bathroom from the inside.

Buffy is testing the water, steam just faintly beginning to rise around her and frizz the ends of her hair. She watches him undress. There's a bruise on her thigh from a fight and one from his mouth the day before to the inside of that, and her nail polish is chipped.

Hot water stings a lot like the first touch of sunlight. There's always a little thrill to it—a little edge of panic—when he follows her into the shower; he's never told her that.

Buffy tips her head back into the spray, letting the water run down her face, the arced line of her bobbing throat, sluicing over her collarbones and down her breasts. Her nipples are soft in the heat. 

It feels like it'd be wrong to touch her. It's always wrong to touch her, but usually she's not so clean.

Spike reaches for the shampoo and pours some into his hands. She watches him, blinking away the water still streaming into her eyes, and shifts her weight a little.

The last time Spike tried to do this, she laughed him out of the room; he sulked on her bed until she came in smelling like coconut and pinned him to the mattress.

Buffy's bottom lip is quivering. She takes a step forward and turns enough for him to slip past her, so the spray hits his back and he can reach her hair.

Holding the steam in his lungs, Spike cards his fingers through. She twitches a little—the right shoulder always rolls a little more—and wraps one hand around her opposite bicep.

Spike lathers the shampoo, massaging it gently into her roots. He thinks distantly of his hand becoming a fist, of yanking her head back to bare her throat—rubs soothingly at a knot of tension at the base of her skull instead. An old impulse. 

_ How could I be evil? _

He coaxes her to lean her head back, rinsing the suds out and leaving her hair in that gentle mid-wash tangle. 

Buffy hands him the conditioner.

Spike works that in, too. He brushes all her hair over one shoulder to let it rest, away from the water's reach, and stares at the bare skin of her neck.

There's a tiny nic near the place it meets her shoulder—where he must have grazed her with a fang before the chip kicked in. It was hardly any blood; he can't even remember the taste of it.

He touches at the spot with his thumb, his throat dry, something like apology or regret or desire and the goddamn thing clawing at his ribs he'll never kill.

Buffy says, "I didn't mean it, you know."

"Which part, love?" asks Spike.

She tips her head back into the water.

~*~

"I can't believe Giles is really gone," Tara says as they make their way up the stairs to Anya's apartment.

"I know," Anya agrees. "I mean, I'm happy to be running the shop, but it doesn't make sense. Everyone's such a mess right now—oh, no offense."

"That's okay," says Tara. She holds open the apartment door for Spike and Xander, who are holding opposite ends of her armoire, to walk through.

The armoire bangs against the doorframe. Xander peers over the side of it to glare at Spike, who takes all the weight in one hand so he can flip Harris the bird with the other.

Tara asks, "How's Buffy doing with it?"

Silence. Spike, a little busy trying to keep the armoire from smacking into a lamp when Xander skirts the couch, realizes belatedly that she was actually talking to him.

Buffy's spent most of Spike's waking hours since the plane left the runway either shagging him, abusing his bartending abilities, or, for one memorable round, both at once. 

"How should I know?" Spike asks.

"Uh, because for some godforsaken reason you're, like, the only person she spends any time with these days?" Xander says bitingly.

Spike grins, pleased. "Yeah, I am, aren't I?"

"I pointed out to Xander that that's exactly what she did when she started dating Riley," Anya says. "He didn't like that."

"Uh, An," Xander condescends. "Remember how we said that was a  _ private  _ conversation?"

Anya shrugs. "I don't see why."

They have the armoire in Tara's new bedroom, but no one's said where it's supposed to go.

"Because Spike's one electrical malfunction from going all Ted Bundy," Xander reminds her, as if Spike's not the only one standing between him and a broken foot. "And getting his twisted little hopes up would be  _ mean." _

"Where d'you want this, then?" Spike asks Tara, ignoring the cause of the muscle jumping in his jaw.

Tara says, "Oh, do you think by the window?"

"You're always being mean to my friends," Anya says.

Spike tries to rotate the armoire, but Xander's rooted in place. "Your friends are a demon and a demon, sweetie. I'm nice to Tara."

"I'm not mean to your friends!"

"You told Charlie his breath smelled like fish two days ago."

Anya rolls her eyes. "That was a helpful comment! Now he knows to practice better dental hygiene."

"That's not the kind of thing you just say to someone," Xander says in a tone that suggests he thinks he's being rather patient. "We've been over this."

"Oi," Spike says. "Can we put this bloody thing down?"

Anya demands, "Oh, so I can't tell someone he should brush his teeth more often, but you can tell Spike that he's a sad wannabe serial killer who can't even kill people and no one wants to have sex with?" 

"I think that's actually worse than the thing he said," Spike points out. "Can we put down the—"

"Spike's a  _ vampire,"  _ says Xander. "He doesn't have feelings. I don't know why I even let you—"

_ "Let  _ me?"

"Okay." Xander laughs nervously. He tries to gesture and almost loses his grip on the armoire; Spike makes no effort to help compensate. "That came out wrong."

Anya crosses her arms over her chest. "Apologize to Spike."

"What," Xander asks.

"I had to apologize to Charlie," Anya says. "So apologize to Spike."

Xander looks at her in disbelief, but quickly loses the resulting staredown. He turns back to Spike, who offers him a shit-eating grin in anticipation.

"Sorry I compared you to Ted Bundy," Xander says flatly. 

Spike lets it hang for a long moment. Then, cheerfully, "All water under the bridge, mate!"

Xander glowers at him as they position the armoire next to the window to Tara's satisfaction, then quickly moves across the room.

"So, Tara, what else you got?" he asks, clapping his hands together.

"Oh, I think that's almost it," she says. "Um, just another bag of clothes and my mirror, but I can get that stuff later."

Spike waves her off. "Nah, I'll get it."

He heads back down to the street, pausing a moment when the evening air hits. Xander's work truck is parked down the block—they used it to haul all the pretty furniture Tara'd bought for the apartment she was supposed to share with Willow. It took two trips. 

Fuck, Spike wants a bloody smoke. His cigarettes are in his duster, which he left upstairs. Campus is two blocks south; there's a little mart he could nick a pack from. 

He played it cool, he thinks. Didn't even flinch. Didn't even defend himself, because why would he. Bundy's amateur hour—he could've said that.

She cried most of the first night after they said goodbye. Not on the car ride, because Dawn was there, but after. 

Spike's the only one who knows that, probably.

Tara closes the door quietly behind herself when she comes to join him near the side of the building. That's a habit of hers—being quiet, even when it doesn't make a difference. 

"Um," she says. "Are you okay?"

Spike is leaning against the brick. He lolls his head to look at her and says, "Forgot my smokes. Was just thinkin' if it's worth going back up for 'em."

"I thought you were getting the mirror," says Tara.

Spike looks out over the street again. "Was gonna have a smoke first."

He can pinpoint the moment she decides to let it go.

"Um, I was gonna run over to the 7-11 to get a bottle of shitty wine," she says. Her lips quirk. "Anya only has the good kind, and I think if you move in with your friend after breaking up with your ex, and you drink wine that costs more than ten dollars, you're doing it wr-wrong."

Spike laughs and says, "Oh, yeah. That's a jailable offense, I reckon."

Tara offers, "Do you wanna come?"

"... Yeah, alright." Spike pushes off the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets as they walk.

~*~

He does carry the mirror up for her, though. Held facing away, so he can't see what isn't there.


	5. Chapter 5

A dreary Wednesday in early December, Spike climbs his ladder to the sound of rain pounding on the crypt roof. He smiles, stomach fluttering, and goes to switch on the telly. 

The news confirms that the forecast's held—rain and possible thunderstorms for the rest of the day.

Fuck, what should he wear? She liked the turtleneck, didn't she? She said it was—

He pairs it with jeans this time, and his leather duster. He thinks about leaving his hair curly, but then she couldn't muss it up herself.

Sunnydale's different in the rain, especially in the winter—all the people shifting in packs to avoid puddles on the sidewalk, huddled under umbrellas to hide from the sky, same as him. He ducks into the florist's and shakes his own umbrella out over the threshold, leaving it in a bin near the door.

"Afternoon!" the florist greets him. "It's a mess out there, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Spike says absently, trailing a finger along a row of premade bouquets, the pretty cellophane springing back against his touch. "It's perfect. Can you do something up custom?"

~*~

Spike rocks back and forth on his heels, the bouquet crinkling in his hand, and finally settles on reaching over to ring the doorbell.

Christ, why did he ring the doorbell? He's such a ponce. Since when has he ever—

Buffy answers the door in sweatpants, a bandana, and a look that says,  _ what are we, in bizarro world?  _ when she takes in his appearance.

Spike says, "Hi, Buffy," and holds out the bouquet.

"Hi, Spike," says Buffy. "What the fuck?"

"I, uh." Spike clears his throat. "I'm—I thought we could go on a date."

Buffy's eyes flick between the roses and his outfit. "Oh."

"I know it's not a picnic in the park or anything," Spike says, fighting the way his voice keeps trying to go thin. He glances at the deluge behind himself. "But it's daytime and I'm not bursting into flames, so I thought that's… new."

Buffy smiles exasperatedly and steps away from the threshold. "Come in, Spike."

It's been a good half a year since he really needed the invitation, but there's still something that thrills in him to hear it. He smiles at her as she closes the door behind him and looks at the flowers again.

"I know they're not much," he says, gesturing with the bouquet. "Dozen red's a little pedestrian, but in my defense the bird didn't give me much to work with. I had this whole arrangement planned, y'know, but she didn't even have heliotrope."

"I was just saying that to Dawn the other day," Buffy says primly. "No one has good helio-troop anymore."

"Exactly! I mean, how's a bloke to—" Spike grimaces, processing her expression. "You're taking the piss."

Buffy pats him on the hand, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. "Roses—pretty. Put them in a vase for me? I'm gonna get changed."

She flits up the stairs with a little hum.

Spike heads into the kitchen, where he sets the roses gently on the counter and looks through the upper cabinets for a proper vase. He finds one to fill with water, then lowers the bouquet into it, careful to keep the wrapping neat.

When Buffy still isn't down a few minutes later, he leans against the wall near the foot of the stairs and shouts, "Gone out the window, did you?"

"Shut up!" comes her reply. "I'm doing my hair!"

He smiles to himself, tilting his head back against the wall.

Buffy comes back down the stairs maybe ten, fifteen minutes later, and Spike takes a breath so it can catch in his throat.

She's wearing the dress he fixed for her—the one from Anya's engagement announcement. Her hair's done up differently from that night though, in some kind of braided bun.

She has to remember, doesn't she? Maybe she's making fun of him again.

"You're beautiful," Spike tells her anyway.

Buffy rolls her eyes. "I'm gonna call Willow and see if she'll get Dawn from school—so we can stay out."

She trails her fingers across his stomach as she walks by, catching lightly against the jumper. He follows her back to the kitchen, where she grabs the cordless phone and speed-dials.

"Hey, Will," she says after a few rings. "No, everything's fine—but I could use a favor."

She wanders a little while she talks, her eyes landing on the flower vase. She smiles wryly, looking over at Spike in that fond-but-patronizing way that means he did a human thing wrong.

"Nah, I was just wondering if you could get Dawn from school," Buffy says into the phone. She tucks it into the crook of her shoulder and pulls the bouquet out of the vase—Spike frowns. "Something came up."

Buffy tugs at the bow holding the flowers together, untying the ribbon and setting it aside.

"It is  _ not  _ for a date!" she tells Willow with a laugh, unwrapping the cellophane and putting that aside too. Making eye contact with Spike, she drops the naked flowers back into the water. "Who would I even have a date with? My social life is  _ tragique." _

It stings. Spike raises an eyebrow at her to pretend it doesn't.

She rolls her eyes again and plucks the ribbon off the counter. "Yeah, if you could hang out with her that'd be cool. I don't want her to—yeah, totally."

Buffy joins Spike near the sink; she sidles up next to him and grabs his left wrist.

"Well, I've actually gotta—uh huh." Buffy scrunches her mouth. She pushes up Spike's sleeve and wraps the ribbon around it. "She still hasn't called, huh?"

Spike watches her tie a lopsided bow. She frowns at it—or at whatever Willow's saying—and unties it again.

"Just give it time," says Buffy. She redoes the bow, slightly less crookedly than the first time, and pats it with satisfaction. "And, hey, when I get back maybe we can do something?"

Spike rotates his hand, watching the silk gleam in the light. It's a shade lighter than his jumper, and makes him look incredibly stupid. He leans down to kiss the top of Buffy's head.

"Thanks so much, Will," Buffy is saying, shifting to briefly touch her cheek to his shoulder. "Yeah, see you tonight."

She hangs up the phone.

"Okay," she says brightly. "Where're we going?"

"Figured a movie'd be good," Spike says. "Maybe coffee after?"

"Ooh," Buffy says, hanging the phone back up on the receiver. "Classics."

Spike says, "Uh, yeah, is that—"

"Let's go," Buffy tells him, grabbing the vase and heading for the foyer. "I'm just gonna put these in my room."

So Dawn and Willow won't see, he figures. Not that the nibblet isn't prone to snooping.

Spike waits by the door yet again, and Buffy comes back with a jacket this time. She asks, "Do you have an umbrella?"

"Yeah, left it on the porch," Spike tells her. "I'm parked out front."

"Nah, let's walk," she says, looping her arm through his. "It'll be fun."

Spike glances pointedly at her wedges. "In those shoes, love?"

She pouts at him. "They go with the outfit!"

That they do. He shrugs and says, "I'm not the boss of you."

"Damn right," she says, and opens the door.

~*~

"Hmm, whatcha think?" Buffy asks, staring up at the movie listings. The rain's coming down even harder, sliding like a sheet off the awning they've ducked under.  _ "Ocean's Eleven  _ or  _ Vanilla Sky?" _

Spike says, "I've got no idea what either of 'em's about, pet."

"Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise?" Buffy clarifies.

"Oh," says Spike. "Cruise."

The attendant says, "The next showing's not for forty-five minutes, is that okay?"

"Sure, thanks," Buffy answers, and Spike pays for their tickets.

Buffy leads him inside by the hand, taking a right towards a side room that looks like an arcade. He follows her, tucking the tickets into his pocket and observing the layout of the place. 

"Seems like it'd be easy to sneak in here," he observes. "Just distract that bloke who's taking the tickets."

"Oh, totally," Buffy agrees. "Me and Faith did that a bunch my senior year—I mean, mostly to get into rated R stuff. Or you buy tickets for one movie and walk into a second one after."

"Look at you, Slayer," Spike says, impressed. "Not so goody-two-shoes after all."

Buffy jabs him with her elbow. "Faith was a bad influence."

"Yeah, but you like a little influence," Spike teases, tonguing at the inside of his cheek. "Keep seeking it out."

She shrugs, not bothering to deny it, and drags him over to the pinball machine. "Loser buys the popcorn."

Spike raises an eyebrow at her. "Did you even bring your wallet?"

Buffy smiles sweetly at him and says, "Like I'm gonna lose."

~*~

She gets the high score on the whole damn machine—twice in a row. Spike is a little turned on just from watching her, the way her eyes track the chaos of the game, how self-satisfied she is each time she wins a round. 

In the concessions line, he slips a hand onto the small of her back. She doesn't shrug him off; he leans down for a kiss.

Buffy obliges until his hand slides down to her arse—she smacks him away, eyes glancing pointedly around the crowded lobby in exasperation.

"What?" Spike asks, but his hand retreats to her hip. "You shouldn't've been so good at pinball."

"God," Buffy says, stepping forward as the line moves up. "You are  _ majorly  _ weird."

Spike asks, "How much popcorn do you want?"

"You know what they should do?" Buffy says, tilting her head at the display showing the different sized containers. "They should put, like, straps on the buckets so you can eat your popcorn like a horse."

Bloody hell, he loves this woman.

"Ooh, have you ever had an Icee?" Buffy asks. "The blue raspberry one pretty much tastes like 'blue.'"

"Like, in a good way?" Spike asks.

Buffy looks at him, all,  _ that's a stupid question,  _ except he's still got no idea in which direction.

He buys one anyway, which she snatches from him immediately, so probably in a good way. They manage to get seats near the back of the theater, closer to the exit—it's early afternoon on a weekday, so the place isn't ridiculously crowded, but the bad weather's driven more people inside than usual, Spike expects.

Buffy takes off her jacket and drapes it over herself like a blanket, then kicks her feet up on the empty seat in front of her. 

Spike keeps the popcorn in his lap and slouches down a little, draping his arm over her shoulders.

There's a plastic armrest in the way, but Buffy scooches over in her seat and leans a little sideways, propping her head against his chest like she does when they're on the couch at home. She goes through half the popcorn before the previews are over—Spike contributes by grazing a little, and tries one confusing sip of the Icee.

Well, two sips, to make sure he didn't hallucinate the first one.

Her mouth is cool when she kisses him.

He's used to her being the warm thing, blooming into his mouth, but her hands are cold and a little damp from the condensation on the plastic cup, and she makes him shiver when she brushes her fingers across his cheek.

The movie's barely started. Spike slips a hand under her coat, palm brushing the hemline of her dress halfway up her thigh.

She hums quietly—possibly not consciously—and bites at his bottom lip.

The chairs creak a little under their shifting weight. Spike lifts his other hand from her shoulder to tangle it in her hair underneath the bun, cupping the back of her head and drawing her closer.

He can smell her getting wet for him, feel the needy press of her thumb against his jaw.

"You'll miss the movie, love," he teases in a murmur, smirking against her mouth. "I thought you were in it for Cruise."

Buffy pushes him back into his seat, shifting halfway out of hers to kiss him again. "I like Brad better."

Spike slides his hand further up her thigh, taking the dress with it. There's the sound of something violent from the movie—car crash, maybe?—but his eyes are closed, kissing her.

Buffy shifts a hand between them and tries to put up the armrest; it creaks in protest.

"Don't think that's the kind that moves, pet," Spike murmurs.

There's a snapping sound—a universal indicator of Buffy Summers getting her way.

"Oops," she says innocently, batting her eyelashes when he pulls away to raise an eyebrow at her, and drops the broken armrest onto the seat on her other side.

"Fuck," Spike growls, and she's on him again.

Her hands are in his hair, breaking up the gel like he was hoping they would—God, he loves it when she touches him. Doesn't even matter why. Doesn't matter how.

Spike squeezes roughly at her thigh, brushing his knuckles against her snatch and grazing the damp spot on her knickers.

She shifts against him, rubbing up against his hand and,  _ oh. _ Would she really let him?

The question's answered, in a way, when she drags her hand down his chest and grinds the heel of her palm against his semi.

Spike moans into her mouth, his hips squirming. Her coat is haphazardly draped across them, but if anyone looked over it'd still be pretty clear what they were doing. That she's touching him—that she wants him.

He slides lower in his seat, putting himself beneath her—at her mercy. Buffy undoes his belt and shoves her hand into his pants, her fingers now as warm as the rest of him when they wrap around his cock.

Her mouth is still on him—her tongue, catching on a human canine. Her teeth bruising his lip. 

Spike thinks about the people. He thinks about strangers looking over and finding them like this, thinks about if her little friends could find them. Is she so hot for this because it's wrong? Is she hot for  _ him  _ because it's wrong?

It's painful, with the friction—with how tight it is. She's barely moving her wrist, just flexing her palm and letting him rub off against her hand. 

She's got calluses, from her work. Plenty of scars, too, but he can't feel those when she touches him.

Spike stops breathing to stay quieter, but he sucks in a stuttering breath to whisper, "Buff…"

"Shh," she orders, and bites at his earlobe. "They'll hear."

God, it's almost unbearable. It's different than being quiet when Dawn's home, or in the basement. She's perfectly composed, except for the little quiver in her thighs when his knuckles rub against her clit. She touches him smugly, like he's another game she's winning, and she's right.

Spike trembles and shudders, his grip tightening in her hair, probably ruining it, but Buffy just moans softly in his ear. He tilts his head back, throating bobbing uselessly, and he comes with the first sweet kiss she presses to the underside of his jaw.

Buffy catches most of it in her palm. She wrinkles her nose against his throat and, predictably, wipes her hand on his boxers before she slips it free.

Spike noses against her cheek, pressing a hungry kiss to the corner of the mouth, and moves to press two fingers against her clit so he can return the favor—but she stands abruptly, folding her coat over her arm in a fluid motion, and saunters straight out of the theater.

Spike stares haplessly after her, come-drunk and stupid, and then scrambles to his feet.

He catches up with her in the hallway just in time to watch her disappear into the family bathroom. There's no sound of the lock turning, so Spike waits for a man and his two children to disappear into one of the theaters and then slinks inside behind her.

Spike's barely through the door before Buffy shoves him up against it.

He groans, fumbling to hit the lock, and slots his thigh between her legs.

"Should've let me do you out there," he tells her lowly, slipping his hand up under her dress and pulling her tighter against him with a squeeze of her arse. Her nails rake down his arm. "Fair's fair, love."

"God, no," she says, and sinks her teeth into his lip. "Embarrassing."

Spike lifts her by the backs of her thighs and flips them around, pinning her to the door against him. She hits it hard, but he knows that's how she likes it.

"That's what you wanted, then?" he asks, scraping his teeth down her throat. Rolling his hips, oversensitive cock still throbbing at the idea of pleasing her. "Take your man apart and leave him a sodding mess where anyone could see?"

"You're my man, huh?" she bluffs, but it comes out a little feathery. One hand making a fist in his hair to guide the rhythm of his hips.

"Good enough to come in with." Spike frees one of his hands and works it between them, finds her cunt hot and swollen against his touch. "Good enough to soak your pretty panties. What are these, the blue ones?"

She moans, head thumping back against the door. Her ribcage swells when he slides his middle finger inside her, palm up, the angle hell on his elbow and wrist. God, she's so wet. He wants his mouth on her, he wants every part of him inside her.

"Yeah," she admits, and he chuckles against her throat. They match the outfit.

Spike crooks his finger and lets her fuck herself, feels himself getting hard again from witnessing the power of her thighs, her abs, as she rides him against the wall. 

"Fuck," Buffy pants. "Gimme two."

He pulls back enough to slip his index finger in too, inhaling sharply when she tightens the vice grip in his hair. 

Buffy tugs until he brings his mouth up to hers again. She's panting against him, right on the edge, and, fuck, there's nothing like getting her there. Sometimes it's better than his own, feeling the pleasure roll through her because of him.

Her heel digs into his side when she comes with a choked-off gasp. She's still working herself through the aftershocks, these little squirming jerks of her hips, when she presses her forehead against his and asks, "Can you…?"

"Prob'ly," he murmurs. "Not sure I could come."

"Don't care," she says, jabbing him with the same heel, and it'd only hurt if he disagreed.

Spike fumbles with his trousers one-handed, a job made harder by the fact that she's carding a hand through his hair distractingly—in gentle counterpoint to how rough on it she's been. He wishes he could turn his head and see himself—see what she's looking at with her pupils blown so wide a man could forget the color of her eyes.

He swallows thickly, freeing himself from his boxers, blinking at her in earnest. Her hair's flying loose from that fancy bun she did it up in, all wispy around her face and color high on her cheeks. Her mouth's bruised darker than her lipstick, plump and harried by his teeth.

"What," she asks, like she doesn't already know what he's thinking—what he's always thinking.

Spike lines himself up, helping her lift her hips to make room for him, shivering when his head brushes against the slick of her. The slide inside is near effortless after she's already come for him and her eyes roll back, thighs clenching around him as the air leaves her throat.

"I love you," he murmurs, his forehead pressing against hers again, their noses brushing. "God, I love you."

She shudders when he starts to move.

"Wish you'd let me, out there," he tells her. A little delirious, maybe—too soon to have her again. "Wish you'd…"

She pulls his hair, guiding his mouth down to her neck. He feels the ache bubbling through his chest, kisses and sucks it into the oft-bruised sensitive place near the crook of her shoulder.

A little higher than normal—the dress has a high neckline. She moans anyway, rocking their bodies together. Her other hand hooks into the back of his collar and pulls for leverage, the leather creaking in protest.

Buffy laughs softly in pleasure and says, "Fuck, right there. Harder."

Spike tightens his grip on her thigh and braces his other hand against the door, snapping his hips into the heat of her. She matches him for effort, muscles quaking, chest swelling hard and fast with her breath hot against his ear.

"Close," she tells him. "Are you gonna—?"

"'S'okay," he pants, kissing back up her jaw. "Go on, baby, for me."

She draws blood in his mouth when her peak hits, everything all sharp and tight, and the pain blooms like an orgasm would anyway. He tastes it on his tongue, rocks his hips good and slow to draw it out for her until her wriggling turns to the oversensitized kind and she drops to the ground.

Spike stays braced against the door to catch his breath. She staggers a little to the side and catches herself on his arm with a giggle, fingers curling in his jacket.

"Well," Spike says after a minute. "Does this still count as a normal date?"

Buffy hums, rolling her neck out with cat-like satisfaction, and tugs on his collar playfully. "Depends. Wanna go back and catch the rest of the movie?"

Spike pauses in doing up his belt. "What's the other option?"

Buffy's eyes are still dark. She licks her lips and pulls harder on the turtleneck.

Spike takes the hint and drops to his knees.

~*~

By the time they stumble out of the bathroom, Spike's come again and Buffy's unnaturally wobbly on her feet, clutching at his arm. She bursts into giggles every time she looks at his hair. It hurts to laugh with her—his jaw's too sore.

"Okay, okay," she says, steering him towards the lobby. "Coffee. Or a nap. God, coffee and then a nap."

"I don't even know what time it is," Spike says. He winces, cracking his jaw.

Buffy says, "Thank God we called Willow," and then shoves him away from her.

Spike nearly bowls right over. He manages to stay upright, gaping at her in hurt until he realizes she's waving manically at someone across the lobby.

It's Anya and Tara, who both finish shaking their umbrellas and smile brightly at them.

"Bollocks," says Spike.

Buffy says, "Oh my God, how's my hair?" and rips it out of the mostly-ruined updo without waiting for an answer, fluffing it frantically with her fingers.

Spike's got no idea what his own looks like. He shoves his hands in his pockets instead, trying to look casual. Christ, he's pretty sure she left a bite mark on his neck; the ribbon from her bouquet is, despite being worse for wear, still tied around his wrist.

"Hi, guys," Tara greets. "What're you doing here?"

"Um," says Buffy.

"You both look terrible," Anya says. "But also really good. Did you get into a fight?"

Buffy's eyes light up. "Yes! Yeah, a big ole fight, right, Spike?"

"Uh, yeah," he says stiltedly. "Demon."

Tara frowns worriedly. "A demon in the movie theater?"

"Oh, it's more common than you'd think," Anya says, and Buffy looks like she could kiss her.

"Do demons… like movies?" Tara asks, sounding skeptical.

Anya says, "Some of them! But actually, I meant because it's dark and there are lots of people to eat."

"Thank God," Buffy says, then seems to realize that it was out loud. "... That we were here! Before it ate anyone."

"Oh, so you were already here?" Tara looks between them. "That was lucky."

"No!" Buffy says, at the same time Spike says, "Yeah."

Her eye twitches.

"Er, not as such, she means," he says, fighting a grimace. "We, uh… tracked it here."

"Well, that's good," Tara says. "I didn't know you guys were working on anything, though."

Buffy says, "Oh, it just came up today! We're not trying to leave you guys out or anything, I mean, that would be  _ so  _ awkward, but it's definitely not anything like that."

"What kind of demon was it?" Anya asks.

"... Well," says Spike. "We don't know."

"You don't know?" Anya asks with surprise.

Buffy smiles woodenly and says, "We don't know! Is that so crazy? 'Cause, like, you'd think we'd know!" with clear subtext in the form of,  _ I'm gonna kill you when we get home. _

"It was one of those ones that goes all  _ poof  _ when you kill it," Spike says.

"Like a vampire?" Tara asks.

"Well, yeah," Spike says. He pauses. "Except not, 'cause we'd know if it was a vampire, obviously. A different kind of… poof."

Buffy says, "Anyway, it's cool you guys are doing roomie stuff together! What movie are you seeing?"

"Oh, _ The Princess Diaries,"  _ Tara says. "Everyone's been saying how fun it is."

She'd mentioned wanting to go see it with Willow, but either that got derailed before the breakup, or she's being polite and seeing it twice for Anya's sake. 

"Oh, that sounds fun!" Buffy tells her. "We should let you go so you don't miss it."

"I bet they're still selling tickets," Tara offers. "You guys could join us—celebrate the successful demon slayage."

Spike thinks if he spends another minute in this theater, his not-soul will be bound to this sodding place to haunt it after not-death.

Buffy, apparently on the same page, says, "Oh, thanks, but I'm pretty beat from all the… slaying. I'm probably gonna hork a whole pizza and fall asleep."

"Uh, same," Spike says. "Except, you know, with blood."

Anya shrugs. "Suit yourselves. C'mon, Tara, I don't wanna miss the previews."

She loops their arms together and tugs Tara along.

"See you guys," Tara tells them, waving. "Get some rest."

Buffy waves back until they turn the corner, and then she makes her voice all gravelly with a clear mocking of his accent and says, "'It goes  _ poof  _ when you kill it!'"

"'Thank God we were here before it, like, ate anyone!'" Spike mocks in turn, heading for the doors. 

Buffy glares at him, which would be more threatening without the sex hair or his intimate knowledge of the conscious effort it's taking her to walk straight.

They stop short when they reach the exit and realize the same thing at roughly the same time.

"Spike," Buffy asks, sickly sweet. "Where's the umbrella?"

"Bollocks."

~*~

There's a boutique down the street that sells Spike a lime green umbrella with little white hearts on it. Buffy laughs so hard when she sees him that he strands her under the movie theater awning for three or so minutes, glowering at her from a few yards away as the first bout of thunder finally rumbles across the sky.

She gets him with the pout eventually.

They're two blocks and a left turn away from the theater before she slips an arm around his waist under the duster again, cheek smushed lightly against his chest.

"You still wanna stop for coffee?" Spike asks. He squints up at the sky—it's hard to say, but he's pretty sure the sun is setting behind the cloud cover. 

"Mm, I was serious about the pizza consumption." Buffy digs her fingertips into the thick fabric of his jumper. "Can we go home and order one?"

Spike kisses her temple.

It's a long walk. He can feel her shivering in the growing chill, but there's not much he can do about that—body temperature dropping with the sun and all. But she seems content, if a little quiet.

They're approaching the house when she finally complains, "Ugh, with the Tara and the Anya and the dampy-ness, my afterglow's all harshed."

Spike raises an eyebrow at her. "Look, love, if you wanna have another go be my guest, but I'll probably have to just lie there and—Dawn?"

Buffy says,  _ "Who _ now?" and follows his gaze to the house.

It's hard to see through the rain falling in sheets, but another lightning flash lights up the sky and it's briefly plain as day—there's a girl sitting on the porch steps. Spike breaks into a jog, trusting Buffy to follow.

Dawn is soaked through to the bone, her hair plastered to her face and dripping more water onto her water-logged jeans. She doesn't even look up at them when she demands, "Where were you?"

"What?" Buffy asks disbelievingly. "We were—why're you out here? Did you lose your key? Where's Willow?"

Spike hands Buffy the umbrella and darts onto the porch, fishing his own key out of his pockets and unlocking the door.

"I like it out here," Dawn says flatly.

"Get inside," Buffy says sternly, and drags her in by the arm. Spike follows them and shuts the door. "And tell me what happened. Oh, my God, you're freezing."

Dawn turns her face away from Buffy's hand where it touches her cheek. "I waited. For an  _ hour. _ I had to ask the principal to call you guys and no one answered. It was  _ humiliating." _

Spike's stomach sinks. He runs a hand through his hair, speechless.

"You walked home?" Buffy's expression is caught between grief and panic. "Dawnie—"

"You  _ forgot  _ me!" Dawn snaps.

"We didn't!" Buffy insists, her eyes going even wider. "Something—something came up but, Dawn, I called Willow. She didn't come get you?"

Dawn blinks at her. "No. Principal Stevens called her and Xander but no one…"

Buffy lowers her hand. "Spike."

"I'll get on the phone," he says.

"Let's get changed, okay?" Buffy tells Dawn gently. "I'm so, so sorry, Dawnie."

Spike heads into the kitchen while the two of them make their way up the stairs, Dawn sniffling all the while. He drags his fingers through his hair again in frustration.

God, anything could've happened to her.

He dials Willow first—it rings until it goes to voicemail.

Xander picks up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"It's Spike. Did you get a call from Dawn's school earlier?"

"Yeah, but I missed it 'cause I was on site," Xander says. "Major roof leakage, all hands on deck. By the time I called back, no one was there—I figured someone else got her. I left a message for Buffy."

"Willow was supposed to get her today," Spike says, staring flatly across the kitchen. "She didn't show. You heard from her?"

"Shit, no, did you try—"

"No answer." Spike feels the phone warping under his grip—he forces himself to loosen it. "She better be bleeding in a bloody ditch—"

Xander warns, "Watch your fucking mouth—"

"—'cause the girl  _ walked,  _ Harris. You had a look outside?"

There's a heavy silence on the other end of the line. Spike can hear the static crackling.

"We better find her," Xander says. "Fuck, I hope she's okay. Do you think she could be with Tara?"

"No," Spike says. "Tara's with your girl. Me and Buffy were, uh, hunting something downtown, ran into 'em."

"Hunting," Xander repeats. "Did Will know that?"

Spike says, "No. Shouldn't have anything to do with that."

"She still could've been attacked," Xander says. "Where's Buffy?"

"Upstairs with Dawn." Spike holds the phone away from his face and sharpens his hearing—the little bit's crying. "We'll mount up soon. Call you back and make a game plan."

Xander says, "Yeah, okay," and hangs up the phone.

Spike shrugs off his leather duster—still damp from sprinting to the boutique—and hangs it on the banister to dry. He unlaces his boots, too, so he doesn't track more watery footprints all over the house, and heads upstairs.

The door to Dawn's room is cracked; he knocks on it and Buffy says, "Come in."

They're both sitting on the bed—Buffy's still in her dress, but Dawn's wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe instead.

"Anything?" Buffy asks.

"No answer from Red," Spike says. "Xander hasn't heard from her." He turns to Dawn. "He, uh, said he's sorry nibblet. By the time he got your call, you were gone."

Dawn sniffs miserably. "Whatever."

"Okay, we've gotta find Willow." Buffy pulls her hair back into a low ponytail, wincing as she works her fingers through the tangles. "Let's get Xander back on the phone and split up."

"You're leaving again?" Dawn asks wetly.

Buffy's resolve falters. She squeezes Dawn's arm and says, "Willow wouldn't just forget you, Dawnie—she's probably in trouble. We've gotta help her."

Dawn wraps her arms around herself. "I—I know, I just…"

"Maybe I should stay," Spike offers. "Man the phones."

Also, if he finds Red first and she's  _ not  _ already under threat of death, he'll end up with a hell of a migraine.

Buffy looks at him indecisively. "We could really use you looking."

"Buffy," Dawn begs. "Please?"

"... Okay." Buffy pulls her into a hug, but she's looking at Spike. "But listen for the phone. I'll call if I hear anything."

"I've got it, Slayer," Spike promises.

Buffy squeezes Dawn tighter, then lets her go. "I'm gonna get changed and call Xander.  _ You,  _ take a bath or something to warm up, okay? You'll feel better."

"Yeah, fine," says Dawn.

Spike heads downstairs to wait; he puts the kettle on in anticipation and digs through the fridge, looking for leftovers he can heat up. There's nothing—he pulls out the sandwich bread instead.

"What're you doing?" Buffy asks when she finds him.

He glances at her—she's dressed in jeans and a jumper under a raincoat, her hair already frizzing out of its tie. "You should eat something before you go."

Buffy smiles crookedly at him and picks up the phone. "So much for my whole pizza."

"Rain check?" Spike offers lightly.

Her laugh cuts off when Xander, presumably, picks up the phone. She says, "Hey, it's me."

Spike cuts the sandwich in half and hands her a triangle. She bites off a third of it in one go and tells Xander with her mouth full, "'S'not your fault." She wedges the phone between her ear and shoulder and takes the glass of water Spike passes over next. "I'm worried too—we'll find her, okay?"

Buffy waves the sandwich at Spike and then points towards the ceiling.  _ Feed Dawn.  _ "No, don't call Tara. I mean—yeah."

Spike lays out two more slices of bread.

"Mm, can you pick me up at Restfield? I'll start there, but we should check her apartment, see if there's anything there." Buffy finishes the first half of her sandwich. "He's staying with Dawn, she's pretty—yeah. Drop me there and we'll split up if nothing pans out."

Spike hands the other half over; she taps her head against his shoulder before wandering back across the room.

"Okay, see you soon." She hangs up the phone, clamping the sandwich temporarily between her teeth to do it, and leans her head back against the wall. "Fuck."

"You'll find her," Spike says. "Nick of time, same as always."

Buffy says, "I know." She looks at him, gaze a little distant. "I'm just tired."

The water shuts off upstairs. Spike says, "Should've had that coffee. Or one less go against the wall."

"I'm gonna stake you when I get home."

"Nah," he says, quirking his lips. "Then you'd have to vacuum. Not worth the effort."

Buffy bites vindictively into her sandwich, but her eyes are twinkling.

Spike finishes making Dawn's, and then the kettle goes off. He pulls down two mugs and grabs the cocoa mix from the cabinet, spooning a little extra into one of them for the nibblet. 

Buffy says, "Okay, I'm gonna go."

She leaves her empty water glass in the sink and, after a moment of hesitation, tugs him down by the jumper and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you," she says.

Spike nods, swallowing down the sudden lump in his throat.

She pulls her hood up and leaves through the back door.

~*~

Dawn comes down from her bath a while later; he reheats her hot chocolate in the microwave. They're watching Animal Planet when the phone rings—Spike has the cordless one on the end table, so he answers it from there.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," Buffy says. "Do you know anything about something called Rack's?"

Anger flares in Spike's chest. "Is that where the—"

"Spike." Buffy's voice is harsh. "What do you know?"

He glances at Dawn, who's watching him worriedly, and closes his eyes to steady himself.

"The guy's a warlock, a real piece of work," Spike tells Buffy. "If that's where Red is, she's into some nasty shit, Slayer."

"How do we find him," she asks flatly.

Spike stands up, heading for the foyer. "He's got a place downtown, but it's cloaked—always moving. I can find it for you. You've gotta have magic or some demon in you to sense it—real invitation-only."

"Is that right?" Buffy asks, her tone suddenly threateningly upbeat. "Don't worry, Amy can show us!"

"Who the bloody hell is Amy?" Spike asks, but she's already hung up on him.

He stares at the phone, then looks back over at Dawn, who's looking at him like he's about to leave her for dead.

If Buffy says she's got it covered, she's got it covered.

Spike brings the phone back with him, leaves it on the end table, and rejoins her on the couch. "What'd I miss?"

"... They're going to Panama," Dawn says.

"Bloody brilliant," Spike says. "Been there myself, you know."

"No way!" says Dawn.

Spike folds his legs up on the cushions. "Well, yeah. This was back when they were still building the canal, mind you. I'm sure it's different now."

"What was it like back then?" Dawn asks.

Spike says, "Oh, Dru loved it. We made our way there from China after—don't worry about it. But the best part was…"

~*~

Spike's in the middle of a definitely-not-Buffy-approved story when the front door swings open and Buffy, Xander, and Willow stumble through, all drenched and slogging mud all over the foyer.

Buffy and Xander have Red held up between them—even though Buffy could easily carry her by herself, and that combined with the smell of blood and thunderous furrow in her brow spells unhappy Slayer.

"Oh my God," says Dawn. "What's wrong with her?"

Spike takes in the pure black of Willow's eyes. "She was at Rack's, then?"

Buffy nods, lips pursed.

"She'll be fine," he says. "Hear it's like a bad trip. Or a bloody fantastic one, depending on the day."

"We're in Candy Land," Xander deadpans.

Willow's smile broadens when she looks over at them. "Hi, Dawnie!"

Dawn's face is stony. "Stay. Away from me."

Willow frowns.

"C'mon, Will, let's get you to bed," Buffy says, pulling her towards the stairs.

"No!" Willow says earnestly, tugging back against her grip. "We—we were gonna hang out, right? You said we—"

Buffy's hold tightens; her voice trembles with anger. _ "You _ are gonna sleep this off, and then in the morning we're gonna have a talk. A  _ long  _ one."

"Buffy," Willow protests.

Buffy's lip curls back, but Xander stops her with a hand over hers on Willow's arm.

"Why don't you come with me, Will?" he says, but he's looking at Buffy. "Let's slumber party it up like the old days, huh? I'll braid your hair."

"Ooh, okay!" Willow trails after him happily; Buffy lets her go. 

They track muddy footprints all up the steps. Gonna be a bitch to clean.

Dawn tells Buffy, "You're hurt."

Buffy looks down at herself—there's a cut on her forehead, where the blood smell is coming from, and she's favoring one shoulder. "Oh, there was… it's okay. I'm okay."

"Did Willow do that?" Dawn asks.

Buffy doesn't look angry anymore—just sad. She smiles and says, "Not on purpose. She—she made a demon, but she… got rid of it."

Spike clenches his jaw.

"Don't," Buffy tells him. She holds up a hand, wincing when the motion pulls on her shoulder. "We'll make her feel bad enough, believe me."

Dawn stands up, pulling the blanket she had in her lap around her shoulders. "I wanna go to bed, too."

"Okay," Buffy says. "I'll see you in the morning. I love you."

"You, too," Dawn mutters. "Night, Spike."

"Night, little bit."

She makes her way up the stairs, dodging the puddles on the floor.

Spike listens for the sound of her door closing. He goes to Buffy, touching at her elbow. "How bad is it?"

She pulls away.

Spike frowns at her, wounded confusion.

"There's… too many people," she says, rubbing her bicep. "I… sorry, I'm just wigged."

Of course.

Spike jerks his thumb towards the door. "You want me to go, then? The bleeding mess upstairs is a family matter, is it?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Buffy says. "God, I so can't deal with you getting an ego right now, okay?"

_ Sure you don't mean spine?  _ Spike thinks bitterly. 

"Fine," he says. "What can I do?"

"Undo the last twenty-four hours?" Buffy asks, a hint of levity creeping into her voice. "I mean, we can keep some of the middle… actually, most of the middle."

Spike shakes his head, laughing despite himself. "Sorry, love—best I can do you for is that pizza."

Her stomach growls as if on cue.

"Deal," she says. "I'll see if Xander's hungry."

"Woah, now," Spike tells her, playing up the offense. "Harris didn't wring me dry in a public bathroom today, he's not part of the deal."

Buffy tilts her head. "Did you try asking nicely?"

_ "God."  _ Spike waves her away. "Get upstairs. But if he wants weird shit on it, he's getting his own."

Buffy blows him a kiss.

~*~

They eat the pizza on the living room floor. Well, Buffy brings half to Xander and Willow and eats the rest; Spike had a pint of blood while Dawn ate and he's not in the mood to play human. 

She's sitting close enough to him that their knees touch. She doesn't touch him anywhere else.

"I really could go," Spike tells her when she folds closed the empty box. "Plenty of time before sunrise. No good excuse for me to stay."

Buffy looks up at him. "I want you to."

"I meant for them," he says.

"... Maybe there's another demon," she says. "Better keep a lookout."

Spike chuckles. "Yeah, alright. Me an' the couch'll take up our old affair—you won't be jealous, will you?"

Buffy pouts, batting her eyelashes at him. "Is she prettier than me?"

"Not even close, baby," Spike tells her, leaning in a little on instinct.

Buffy stops him with her index finger pressed to his mouth, her eyes flicking to the ceiling. She lingers against his bottom lip, dragging at it gently so it pops back against his teeth when she withdraws her hand.

Everything in him aches to kiss her anyway.

Buffy's fingertips graze his cheek when she stands. "Goodnight, Spike."

He watches her go.

~*~

Spike mops up the water in the foyer—scrubs the mud out of the carpets. He wants her to wake up and find it pretty.

~*~

In the morning—closer to noon, really, Dawn having left in Xander's car for school hours ago, Buffy gone to work, and the last of last night's storm pattering into a drizzle outside—Spike is having himself a coffee in the kitchen, for something to do. His car's still out front, so he could make it home easy, but he's got a shift at Willy's tonight and he wants to see Buffy before then, so he might as well wait it out.

The stairs creak under Willow's weight.

Spike twirls the little spoon in his coffee.

"Um, hi," Willow tells him. "I didn't think anybody was still home."

Spike's temper hasn't cooled much, but Buffy told him to  _ play fucking nice  _ before she left, so all he says, "Just me."

"Oh, did you make coffee?" Willow asks eagerly. She's dressed in her same clothes from the night before, mud splatter and all. "Can I have some?"

"Uh, yeah—be my guest," Spike says.

She pours herself a cup and grabs creamer from the refrigerator. "I've always thought you made really good coffee. Have I ever told you that? Buffy's coffeemaker always gets all burn-y on me."

"Joyce taught me," Spike says. "Used to have me over and we'd watch her stories. Y'know, before…"

"Oh," says Willow. "Right."

Spike looks down at his mug; he runs his thumb over the ivy leaves on the spoon handle.

"You're mad at me too, aren't you?" Willow asks. "I mean, I don't blame you. I—I know that I messed up, I just…"

Spike heard the whole talking-to upstairs; not that he was invited to the conversation. So, yeah, he knows. And…

"I get it, Red," he tells her, looking up. "You lost your one good thing and now you want something bad for you instead. Trust me, it's a familiar tune."

"Well, except, some people would argue you kinda did it in reverse," Willow says lightly, talking with her hands and spilling coffee onto the counter. "Oh, whoops."

Spike snorts. "Some would argue, yeah."

"... It's not that it's bad for me, though." Willow's voice speeds up. "Or, well, it—it is, bad for me, but it's not like I was, all, 'oh, goodie, it's bad for me!' you know?"

Spike hums into his coffee.

"It feels… good," Willow says quietly. "Or it hurts less."

"Makes you feel in control," says Spike.

"Yeah," says Willow. "But I'm not."

Spike looks up at her. "If you do anything to hurt Dawn again, I'll find a way to kill you. I don't care if the chip blows my bleeding brains out."

Willow smiles faintly—she used to be afraid of him. "You could try."

Spike breaks first. He glances down at his coffee, nudging the spoon with one finger. "So you're going cold turkey, then?"

"That's the idea," Willow says. "Buffy and Xander are gonna help me give the apartment a good ole fashioned purge tonight."

"Good on you," Spike tells her. "Takes stones."

Willow says, "Oh, not really. I'm just afraid."

"Rot," says Spike. "It's not 'just' anything."

Willow pauses with her coffee to her lips. "What do you mean?"

"Fear means you've got something to lose, Red." Spike holds her gaze steadily. "Means you can hurt. Means you're alive."

"Oh." Willow's eyes turn a little glossy. "Um, thank you."

Spike shrugs. "Don't fuck it up."

"Little less 'thank you' for that part, but it was a really good start."

He smirks, rolling his eyes.

"But I was serious," says Willow. "I think you and Buffy is a good thing."

Spike stiffens. "We're not—"

"Oh, I know. I didn't mean like that, I mean, gosh." Willow laughs. "It's like, wow, the vampire forbidden love thing  _ once  _ was—oh, sorry, not the point. But I think being in love with her made you better. I mean, major points for not trying to kill us anymore."

"Electronic muzzle helps with that," says Spike.

Willow raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Alright, I've gone soft!" Spike admits irritably. "Goodbye, Big Bad, hello, 'puts little marshmallows in the hot chocolate.' Are you happy?"

"Yes," Willow declares. She sips her coffee thoughtfully, her eyes lifted at the family portraits he knows are hung up behind him. "But being soft isn't so bad, is it? Lots of good things are soft. Like the little marshmallows."

"I'm a marshmallow," Spike repeats drily. "Thanks ever so."

Willow continues in earnest. "Well, it's like fear, isn't it? If—if you're soft for something, that… well, it means it's important, right? Like, you think it's precious."

"Slayer's not a china doll," Spike says. "Doesn't exactly need bubblewrapping."

"I know that," Willow tells him. "And so does Buffy. Actually, I think she knows that a little too well."

Spike hums in agreement.

"She's always trying to do everything on her own," Willow says. She frowns softly. "Especially lately. But she lets you do stuff for her, like with the pizza and the slaying and stuff. I… might be a little jealous."

"Of me?" Spike asks.

Willow shrugs with one shoulder.

Spike sets his coffee down, fingers slipping against it in disbelief. "She'll never love me. Not like she does you and the others."

"Probably not," Willow agrees. She smiles encouragingly. "But, hey, she didn't throw out the flowers."

She probably would've, if she'd known anyone'd be in her room. 

"Waste of good home decor otherwise, I expect," he deflects.

"I think she would've thrown them away before," Willow says. 

Spike's got nothing to say to that; he doesn't know how else to put it in a way that wouldn't give away the truth—that she's wrong and still right. That Buffy will touch him, will pull him into her and put the flowers in a vase and rest her head on his shoulder and be so ashamed of it that she won't tell anything with a soul.

It's not  _ like that.  _ It won't be. But he's something— _ they're  _ something, and it's more than he thought he'd ever get.

"Anyway, I should get home," Willow says. "Get some more sleep in my own bed."

Spike clears his throat and offers, "Want a lift? Car's out front."

"Oh, no, but thanks." Willow smiles wryly. "I'm still a little nauseous, and, no offense, but you kinda drive like you can only see out of a teeny tiny part of the windshield."

"Fair enough," says Spike.

Willow puts her mug down on the counter. "But I'll see you around, right?"

"History suggests," Spike tells her. "Ta, Red."

She gathers her things from upstairs and heads out into the rain. Spike contemplates the rest of his coffee, then decides to take a page out of Willow's book instead—he only caught a few hours this morning before the humans started puttering around. A kip'll probably do him some good. He washes both mugs in the sink and goes up to Buffy's bed to wait for her there.

~*~

"Mm, I've got something to tell you," Buffy says, curling up against him in the armchair. "Don't be mad."

Spike groans. "Look, pet, if you want the garland redone again it'll have to be on you—all this Christianity's giving me a rash. Feels like someone sneezed holy water all over me."

They're watching the lights twinkle on the Summers household's very own Christmas tree, newly decorated and already shedding pine needles onto the carpet. 

"Not that." Buffy's nose wrinkles. "Also, ew."

"What, then?" Spike asks.

Buffy nuzzles against his collar bone. "I, um. Told Tara about us."

Spike shifts to get a better look at her. "You did?"

"Yeah." Buffy frowns. "I mean, I think she kinda figured it out the other week, with the whole 'really bad lying at the movies' thing? Some hints were dropped."

"But you said—"

"That we're sleeping together." Buffy blinks up at him. "I mean, I didn't get large with the details, but, like, she knows."

Spike's chest flutters to the point of pain. "Why'd you think I'd be mad? I'm not the one who wanted to hide."

She shrugs guiltily.

"Was she—" Spike purses his lips. "I mean, she didn't—"

"She was good," Buffy says faintly, almost-frowning to herself. "She was really sweet."

Spike swallows cautiously and ventures, "Maybe I'll tell Anya, then. Since the three of us—"

"No!" Buffy says quickly, and, oh.

That's the part he's supposed to be mad about it.

"... Why not?" he asks. "I mean, if you can—"

"Because she'll tell  _ Xander,"  _ Buffy tells him. She sits up a little, glancing at the ceiling. "Who's pretty much the  _ last  _ person I'd want to know, I mean, God, am I right?"

Spike's throat burns. He says, "Harris's marrying a demon. If anyone's in a glass house—"

"But he'll freak," Buffy protests. "Spike, you know he will."

Yeah, he will. Spike clenches his jaw and looks away.

Buffy touches at the place his muscle is jumping, pressing her fingertips gently into the tension. He stops grinding his teeth, but he doesn't look back over.

"I'm just not ready for that, okay?" she says. "I can't… I don't know what I'd do."

Spike watches the colors play over the tree, the lights reflecting in the fat gold ornaments and glittering silver garland—still a little uneven where it's trailing up the boughs, but Buffy finally gave up on it when Dawn went to bed. His hands did that—hung up Joyce's old decorations, reached for the star to put on top since she wasn't there to do it herself.

"But you will be?" he asks in the silence. "One day?"

"I… I don't know," Buffy answers defensively, shifting in his lap. "I didn't…"

There's a sinking feeling in Spike's stomach. He turns back to her, finally, to watch the look on her face when he asks, "Do you want out?"

"That's not what I said," Buffy answers, holding his gaze.

"But you don't want forward, either," says Spike.

"Spike," she says helplessly. 

Spike takes a breath, the scent of evergreen stinging at his nose. He looks at her—really looks. This beautiful, righteous woman with a crucifix hanging between her breasts and a bruise in the shape of his mouth beneath them, fresher than the marks on the knuckles of hands that always fall to rest as fists. 

"You're playing house with me," he tells her. "You don't feel it like I do—I know that."

"Say that's true," Buffy asks, eyes dragging slowly up his face. "Is it enough?"

Spike tries to laugh ruefully, but it scrapes his teeth on the way out. "Love's not about 'enough,' Slayer. Thought you knew that one by now."

Buffy whispers, "Yeah," and brushes her knuckles across his cheek. Tenderly, maybe a little sad, and the look in her eyes is almost… "We should go upstairs. Um, get you away from the tree before you break out in hives or something."

"Right," Spike says softly. "Can't have that."

But her palm flattens against the side of his face, and her lips press gently to his mouth, and neither of them moves for a long while.

~*~

Buffy's thighs are quivering above him, her hips rolling slowly, torturously, winter-pale skin shimmering in the sunlight stealing its way in through the curtains. Her eyes are closed and her hair is falling in her face and both her hands are pressing his chest into the mattress, and Spike drags his fingertips up her ribs and asks, "Wha'd'you want for your birthday?"

"Mm," Buffy purrs, slinking lower to change the angle and suck his earlobe into her mouth. "That's cheating."

Spike's hand traces the length of her spine. "How's that?"

"Asking me…" Buffy trails off in a moan, rolling her hips filthily. "During sex. When all I'm thinking about is…"

She scratches her nails down to his navel.

"Could get you orgasms," he offers breathlessly, back arching into the sting.

"You already get me those."

"Well, yeah." Spike squeezes her arse, rocking up into her at the languid pace she's setting. "But we could do 'em all special-like."

Buffy giggles. "Do they come in flavors I don't know about?"

Spike suggests, "New toys?"

"Ooh, or in bulk."

"Orgy?"

"Try again next week."

Spike bites the crook of her shoulder.

Buffy moans again, plastering their bodies together. She's starting to sweat; they've been at it for what must be over an hour, her on top the whole time. She had him by the wrists for most of it, but he begged to be able to touch her.

He slips a hand into her hair and pulls on it the way she likes, baring her throat. God, she's practically dripping around him, she's all he can smell, all he can taste. All he'll ever—

She slips her thumb into his mouth. He whimpers, eyes fluttering shut, lapping at her with his tongue before he starts to suck.

"Fuck," she breathes. "Do you wanna, with me?"

He nods, hand tightening on her hip.

Buffy sits up a little, pressing the pad of her thumb down against his teeth, and grinds her hips down with a gasp. She's barely moving—letting his cock drag against the right spot inside her, her clit rubbing against his pelvis.

Spike opens his eyes to watch. It's what gets him there—more than the wet heat around him, more than the pleasure sparking up his spine. No, her throat bobbing, her breasts gently bouncing with the effort, the way her face screws up like she's almost in pain it feels so good—that's it, there she is, there  _ he  _ is.

"Fuck," Buffy pants. "Fuck, Spike."

She takes her thumb out of his mouth so he can say her name.

"Buffy," he tells her. "Hell, love. That's—"

Then her mouth, then teeth in it, then her boneless and purring against his throat like a great cat.

Buffy stretches and rolls off him, onto her back. She grabs a tissue off the nightstand and cups it between her thighs and asks, breath still coming shallow, "You really wanna know what I want?"

Spike turns onto his side, facing her with a forearm braced on the bed. "You know I do, love."

"I just want a normal day," Buffy tells the ceiling. Her throat sounds a little scratchy. "Where no one gets hurt, or kidnapped, or leaves. That sounds pretty good, doesn't it?"

The sound of their breathing cuts in half.

"It's a pretty low bar, love," Spike says.

"You can do the other thing, too," she says.

He kisses the tip of her nose.

~*~

The town of Sunnydale is the proud home of a single sex shop, which is nestled between the similarly-lone tattoo parlor and a twenty-four-hour mart. It is, predictably, just two blocks from The Bronze. Spike can get there during the daytime if he makes use of a back alley and pulling his coat high over his head for the little sprint to the door.

It's a nice place, all things considered. Spike's never met a clerk who wasn't at least decent to him. Today it's a new girl, with black-from-a-box hair and more piercings than fingers, wearing a button that says  _ Ask me about pussy!  _

Spike would really like to, but he recognizes the pretty blonde trying to duck behind a vibrator display in the back.

"Well," Spike tells Buffy, waggling his eyebrows delightedly. "Isn't this a coincidence."

"Oh my God." Buffy's face is adorably red for someone who let him finger her on The Bronze's balcony two nights ago. "Go away!"

Spike tongues at the inside of his cheek. "No need to get cute, Slayer. I can guarantee I'm up for whatever little nasties you're eyeing back here."

Buffy glares at him playfully. "I'm here for Anya's bachelorette party, you pig. She's really big with the penis novelty item train."

"And she sent  _ you,"  _ Spike says skeptically, "not the maid of honor. Why?"

"She said I was the 'penis expert,'" Buffy says murderously. "Which, I guess when the rest of the bridal party is two lesbians, a teenager who  _ so  _ isn't coming to this party, and a human-hating vengeance demon, I guess I am."

"Yeah," says Spike. "You slut."

The bruise rapidly forming on his ribs says  _ too far. _

Wincing, Spike asks, "What've you got so far."

"Mm, these funky balloons and the curly straws for our drinks." Buffy tilts her head at the nearest shelf, which Spike realizes belatedly has an entire section dedicated to bachelorette festivities. "Maybe the dick gummies? They're kinda cute."

"Oh, yeah," Spike agrees. "Lookit the li'l buggers. Hah, buggers."

Another smack. She bumps her hand against his instead of pulling away, tangling their fingers together.

"Anyway," Buffy says, picking up a pack of strawberry-flavored penises with her other hand and frowning at them thoughtfully. "Do I wanna know why you're here?"

"I'm having an affair with the bird at the counter," Spike says. "Also, for your birthday present."

Buffy rolls her eyes at him. "I thought that was a joke."

"Not unless you've got something you want more," he answers.

"World peace?" Buffy suggests, and tasks him with holding the gummies. 

"Something you want  _ more." _

She plucks a fuzzy pink headband with two equally-fuzzy pricks on top off the shelf and sticks it on his head.

"Well, since we're both here," Spike offers, "you wanna pick it out or be surprised?"

Buffy hums, swinging their hands a little as she leads him down the aisle. "Did you have any—fuck."

Spike is halfway through saying, "Yeah, but more—" when he notices Willow coming through the door. "Specifically."

Buffy's already dropped Spike's hand; he shoves it in his pocket instead, then realizes he's still wearing the bloody dick headband and rips it off his head.

Willow says, "Oh, boy."

"This town is  _ so  _ not big enough," Buffy mutters.

A prolonged silence.

"I'm, um—oh, is this the sex shop?" Willow widens her eyes and looks around in comically fake confusion. "I thought this was the used book store. Silly me! I'll just—"

"Solo-wanking's not what it used to be, eh, Red?" Spike asks.

Willow rolls her eyes, giving up the goat. "Tell me about it. Don't mind me and my lady-shame, just goin' about my business. What's new with you guys?"

Buffy says, "Um, I'm here for Anya?"

"Oh, right!" Willow says eagerly. "You're the penis queen! Yay, penis!"

Spike snorts.

"Spike," Buffy says loudly. "Why are you here?"

"... Personal matters," says Spike.

"That's nice and vague," Buffy says tightly.

Spike mutters, "Could've said 'demon.'"

"Do they make those?" Buffy asks, tilting her head.

"There's a demon for everything, love."

"Ain't that the truth," says Willow, who is now unabashedly examining a row of vibrators.

Buffy sighs loudly. "Okay, back to penis patrol. Spike, you have one, don't you? Help me pick."

"Well, do you want one that looks like a human or—"

"For the party,  _ ew." _

Spike says, "It's Anyanka—question still stands," but he follows her back over to the bachelorette section.

They semi-seriously debate the merits of phallic cupcake toppers while Willow does her shopping, then breathe a joint sigh of relief when she buys something at the counter—Spike tries to sneak a peek, but Buffy steps on his foot in a clear scolding—and leaves.

"Welcome to Sunnydale," Buffy says cheerfully, "where we only have one of everything and privacy is dead!"

"At least you had the bachelorette excuse," Spike says. "God forbid your best friend knows you masturbate."

Buffy snorts and says, "Yeah, but with your dick?"

"Hey, it's got better functionality than the knock-offs," Spike says.

"Ooh, except the Rabbit." Buffy picks up a bubblegum pink vibrator where it's on display above a stack of boxes. "Look, it's got these cute little pearls in it."

"Harmony threw me out for a good two weeks after she got herself that little number," Spike tells her.

Buffy side-eyes him with a look that says,  _ are you sure you wanna talk about your ex-girlfriend right now? _

He shrugs; she puts the toy down and loops her arm through his, continuing their circuit through the store.

The next time Buffy stops to give something a closer look, it's in the smaller room off to the side, near the lingerie section.

"Huh," she says, looking at the row of harnesses. "What're these?"

"Uh, more of a present for me than you, love," Spike tells her, half-jokingly. When she blinks at him, he elaborates, "They're strap-ons. You know, for pegging?"

"Oh." Buffy's eyes widen.  _ "Oh.  _ You mean, like—"

She makes a circle with her thumb and forefinger and makes a fucking motion with the middle finger of her other hand.

"Yeah," he says. "Pretty much."

Buffy looks at him with the same skeptical curiosity she affords most of his sexual propositions. "You've… done that?"

"Well, yeah," Spike says defensively, feeling his face go a little hot. "Not for a while."

"Drusilla?" Buffy guesses.

And Angel, though he came equipped with his own—not a saga Spike feels like detailing at present, and he doesn't think she'd appreciate the details either. So he just nods.

"And you… liked it?" Buffy asks. "Getting fucked?"

"'Course I did," Spike scoffs, going for nonchalant. "Don't you?"

She shrugs with her whole face, all,  _ you got me there,  _ and turns back to the wall. "Ooh, pink. Buy me this one."

Just like that. A pressure Spike hadn't fully realized was gripping his chest dissipates into nothing. God, he wants to kiss her.

"You want a cock of your very own to go with it?" he offers instead, and is rewarded with a fond eyeroll.

"Only if it matches," she says, adding the harness to the penis expert purchases he's juggling for her in the crook of his other arm, and takes him by the hand once again. "I mean, how red in the face would I be if my fake dick clashed?"

"I'd laugh you out of the bedroom," Spike agrees. "Let's see what they've got."

Buffy flits over and grabs a silicon dildo that's over half the length of her forearm and just as thick. "Whaddya think?"

"Woah, Seabiscuit," Spike says, only mostly convinced she's taking the piss. "I mentioned it's been a while, didn't I?"

"Like, how 'a while?'" Buffy asks. She tilts her head, which makes the ridiculous bloody phallus flop in her hand.

Spike says, "Definitely before I knew you. Dru wasn't up for much after Prague."

And then with Angel, and the world-saving betrayal, and the rest being history.

"Aww, Harmony didn't share her Rabbit?" Buffy teases.

Spike snorts. "Would  _ you  _ trust Harm to put anything up your arse?"

"Uh, no, but I wouldn't trust her with my anything in my anywhere," Buffy says.

"It's a veto, pet," Spike tells her.

Buffy rolls her eyes and puts the horse cock back down. "I just think mine should be bigger than yours is all. You know, for feminism?"

"Humbly requesting just a  _ little  _ less feminism," Spike says ruefully, leaning over to kiss her temple.

"Mm, okay." Buffy tugs him down by the lapel for a proper kiss. "I'll sacrifice my morals since you're cute."

He squeezes her hand in his after they pull away.

"Ooh, wait—this one," Buffy says. She grabs the box—there's no model on display—and holds it up for him.

It's a lilac color that'll compliment the deep pink of the harness, relatively realistic in size and shape except for some extra ribbing that's a bonus from where Spike's standing. He's not sure it's actually bigger than him, but he's not gonna raise  _ that  _ point.

"Looks good to me," he tells her. "Good color."

"Pretty," Buffy agrees. "The most important part of pegging your—vampire."

Spike quirks his lips. "You ready to go?"

She hums and heads for the register.

Buffy pays for Anya's penis parade, but Spike gets her present and snatches the bag from her before she can add it to her own.

"Hey!" she pouts at him. "That's for me."

"Ah, ah, ah," Spike warns, raising an eyebrow at her to the cashier's apparent amusement. "No cheating. You'll get it in three weeks."

Buffy narrows her eyes and threatens, "I could take it from you."

"Point is for it to be the other way around," Spike says with a grin.

She hip checks him on her way out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Spike is at home—well, on the Summers' couch—enjoying a good book, tasked with holding down the fort while Buffy is off being formally inaugurated as penis queen. Technically he volunteered to babysit the bite-sized one, on account of he knew the invite to Xander's stag night was purely out of obligation to Anya, and he thought he'd save both him and Harris the embarrassment.

In any case, there are worse ways to spend his night off. He took Dawn to the mall and let her pretend not to know him when she ran into her friends, then shipped her off to an impromptu sleepover with said fellow teenage dirtbags—he even remembered to call the parent's house—and came back to catch up on his reading.

He and Clem are starting a book club.

Spike's just turned to a new chapter when the phone rings—he checks the clock, which tells him it's pushing midnight. Usually bad news after midnight, unless there was bad news before eleven and the cleanup's being done.

The caller ID says it's Anya and Tara's place, which they're still sharing until Anya moves in with Xander.

"'Ello?" Spike answers, then winces when he's immediately bombarded by loud music blasting through the speakers.

"Spike! Hiii!" Buffy chirps happily. "Come pick me up!"

Spike blinks. "What?"

"Okay, see ya soon, byeee!"

The line goes dead.

Spike stares at the phone. He hits redial; it goes to the machine.

Bloody hell. Spike grabs his coat and the keys off the kitchen island.

~*~

When Spike gets to the apartment building, the music is telling him to  _ not make this one-dimensional,  _ from all the way down the hall. He turns the doorknob and finds the front door unlocked—God, how does no one in this sodding Hellmouth town ever learn?—and only makes it three steps into the room before being attacked.

Buffy crashes into him hard from the side, her legs wrapping like a vice around his middle and her drunken laughter bright in his ear. His back hits the doorframe from the momentum—he has to put both arms around her, including one under her thighs, to keep her from bouncing off like a pinball.

_ "Bloody  _ hell!" Spike exclaims. "What—"

He cuts off when he realizes the rest of the bachelorette party is staring at him.

Anya seems a tad confused, if not mildly offended by his presence. Halfrek looks like she wants a fan to be waving in front of her face in cool disinterest, and Tara is clearly amused and hiding it poorly.

There's no Red—guess she chickened out.

"Hi!" Buffy says. Her arms are wrapped around his neck, but she lifts a hand to tap him on the nose. "I lied."

Buffy's wearing a slinky little black number that barely covered her arse when she left the house in the first place—Spike's pretty sure the whole room has a spectacular view of the thong he has on good authority she slipped on underneath, and also that she's gonna flee the country if she remembers any of this in the morning.

He drops her to the floor and says, "Uh, how's that?"

The thing about drunk Buffy is that, if anything, she somehow gets stronger. Spike is reminded of this when she grabs his wrist and quite literally drags him across the room.

"I don't wanna go home!" she says, which, yeah, he's figured out that bit. "You're staying!"

"He is?" Halfrek asks distastefully.

"I am?" Spike asks.

Buffy pushes him onto the couch.

"Hey, Spike's not allowed at bachelorette night!" Anya protests. "He's not a woman." She tilts her head at him. "... Are you?"

"Not really," says Spike.

Buffy cocks her hip, putting one hand on it, and argues, "But  _ you _ were all bummed the stripper left early, and, see, I fixed it! Spike has  _ killer _ abs. He can be our stripper."

Spike glances around the circle, gamely ignoring the whole… second half of that situation, and asks, "Why'd the stripper leave early?"

"Oh," Tara says helpfully, "Buffy bit him."

"We gave him a lot of money and made him go away before it got worse for anyone involved," Anya adds.

Spike purses his lips around a burst of laughter and, as seriously as he can manage, tells Buffy, "Well, you're not biting  _ me." _

"Not with that attitude," Buffy answers, and ragdolls onto the couch next to him.

She ends up partially horizontal, one calf draped over Spike's knee, which—

"Woah," Anya says. "Again with the underwear."

"Or lack thereof," Tara quips.

Spike closes his legs, which dislodges Buffy and forces both of her feet onto the floor. "How much did she drink?"

"Just, like,  _ two  _ margaritas," Buffy answers. She flops all the way onto her back and kicks her feet up onto Spike's shoulder, crossing her ankles. He presses his lips together when she prods his cheek with a big toe. "I dunno what the big deal is 'cause I feel  _ great  _ and you guys are being, like, super lame-o pants."

"Halfrek forgot that humans have a different alcohol tolerance than demons," Anya explains, making a blasé  _ what can you do  _ gesture. "Most of us realized after the first one."

"You  _ guys, _ it's  _ fine! _ I've got a  _ Slayer  _ metabolism!" Buffy snorts and kicks Spike again. "Get it? Like  _ killer,  _ except—you get it?"

Spike grabs her by the ankles and sets them in his lap instead, squeezing affectionately before he lets her go. "Uh, maybe I should take— _ drive  _ her home."

"Hey!" Buffy whines.

Anya says, "Nah, she's not hurting anyone—"

"Except the stripper," says Tara.

"—she can stay. Besides, we still have party games left. I wanna pin the penis on the naked man."

"Uh," says Spike.

Anya tells him, "Oh, don't worry—not you. There's a poster! It's very good, but not very anatomically correct."

"Do you wanna be an honorary woman, Spike?" Tara offers, quirking her lips. "It'll be more fun with more people."

"Also, you're probably the only one with good enough reflexes to stop her from breaking the furniture," Anya points out.

Buffy snorts. "He could  _ try." _

Spike raises an eyebrow at her. "Oh, so we're threatening the furniture, are we?"

"No!" Buffy says defensively. "But I  _ could." _

"I believe you can slay the furniture, love."

"You better."

Halfrek clears her throat.

"Yeah, alright," says Spike. "Can I get one of those willy-headbands too?"

Buffy giggle-snorts.  _ "Willy.  _ You work at a dick bar."

"And a demon-strength margarita?"

"Make one yourself," says Halfrek.

"Hey, don't be mean to him!" Buffy tells her, pushing up onto her forearms, and Spike raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Trust me, it just makes him like you more."

That tracks better.

"I'll get the naked man," Tara says as Spike heads over to the kitchen. He finds all the supplies laid out on the counter, including what looks like the  _ second  _ tequila bottle of the night.

Bloody hell—how are  _ any _ of them standing out there? 

Spike finds a suitably phallic glass on the counter—originally intended for Willow, he assumes—and eyeballs how much margarita he can get away with making at once. He's pouring a generous helping of tequila into the blender when a pair of arms wrap around his torso from behind.

"Uh," Spike says, "maybe that's not the—" Buffy cups his crotch and squeezes. "—best idea, love?"

Buffy bites the back of his shoulder. "No one's looking."

Spike closes the lid on the blender and switches it on. His eyes flutter shut when she rubs the heel of her hand against his dick again, and he turns his head in search of her mouth; she pushes up onto her toes to kiss him.

"D'you really want me to do a strip tease?" he murmurs.

"Mm, nope." Buffy slips both hands onto his hips and turns him so he's got his back to the counter and her between his legs. She bites at his bottom lip. "I just missed you."

Spike's stomach flutters. He rests a hand on the small of her back and says, "I missed you too, baby, but you're gonna give those nice people out there the right idea if we carry on like this."

"I know." Buffy pulls away, pouting again. "Ugh, you'd be more fun right now if you were still, like, thirty percent more evil."

Spike raises an eyebrow. "How's that?"

Buffy suddenly leans forward, plastering the entire length of herself against his chest, and switches the blender off. She bats her eyelashes up at him, biting her lip in a coquettish smile, and then saunters away with her hips swaying.

The effect's lessened by the fact that she stumbles into the doorframe on her way out, but, God, if he doesn't wanna just—

Right, that's how.

Spike considers dunking his entire face into the margarita. He settles for drinking half of it in one go instead, feeling the chill seep into his blood. He brings the rest back out with him into the living room, where the women have set up an X-rated Pin the Tail on the Donkey knock-off.

Tara is spinning Anya around in circles, and now that they're all literally standing, he can see that Buffy's not that far ahead in the drunkenness competition after all—she's just the randiest lush.

Anya very confidently slaps the penis onto the board in the form of a third hand. She takes off the blindfold and crows excitedly at her handiwork.

"Ooh, me next!" Buffy says, skipping forward. "Do me!"

Tara, looking splendidly proud of herself, says, "Oh, I think we should let Spike take care of that."

Buffy cackles, smacking her lightly on the arm, and Spike rolls his eyes. He passes his glass off to Tara and trades her for the blindfold, which he ties over Buffy's eyes, carefully avoiding snagging her hair.

"Kinky," she tells him cheerfully, at full volume.

"Yeah, yeah," he says, tightening the knot a little vindictively. "Let's all have a go at Spike. 'Round and around, Slayer."

He spins her faster than Tara did Anya, and he can tell as soon as he lets her go that it still isn't enough, even two demon-margs in—it's the little jerk her chin does as soon as she plants her feet, turning her towards the target.

Or, well— _ a  _ target. Buffy makes a confident quarter-turn and slaps the Velcro cock square above Spike's belt, giggling smugly to herself and leaving her hand exactly where it is when she uses the other one to lift the blindfold.

"Oops," she says innocently. "Do I get partial credit?"

"Hmm, no points," Halfrek says. "William isn't naked."

Spike takes a step back before Buffy can lunge for his shirt.

~*~

Thirty minutes later, they've exhausted the novelty games and are mostly sprawled on the floor, listening to Anya's "Sexy Music" playlist and shooting the shit.

"Okay," Tara decides, sitting up a little. "It's that time of night where you've either gotta sober up or get drunker again."

"Ooh!" Buffy's hand shoots up; Spike, sitting immediately to her left, leans out of the way to avoid getting smacked. "I vote drunker-er."

Spike says, "I think the rest of the party's still catching up to you, pet."

"That's a good idea!" Anya says.

"Oh, no," says Tara.

"No, I've heard about this," Anya continues excitedly. "We can play a drinking game! That's a good tradition, right?"

Halfrek rolls her eyes dismissively.

"Oh, we could do that." Tara stands and starts gathering up their empty glasses. "What do you wanna play?"

Anya asks, "What's the best one?"

"Never have I ever!" Buffy says.

Spike looks at her sidelong. "Never what?"

"No, that's the name of it," Tara explains. She looks at Buffy. "And… I don't think that's very fair."

"Aww, but it's fun!" Buffy says, wheedling Anya. "It's totally the best one."

Anya seems intrigued. "How do you play?"

"Oh, it's easy! See, we all sit in a circle—good for us—and we take turns saying, 'never have I ever  _ blank.'"  _ Buffy is gesturing excitedly. She keeps whacking the back of her hand against Spike's chest, which, given her performance on Pin the Dick, he suspects is intentional. "And you say something you haven't done. And if it's not your turn and you  _ have  _ done the thing, you drink."

"Sounds fair to me," Halfrek says nonchalantly.

"Uh, hang on," Spike says warily. "Some of us haven't, you know,  _ nevered  _ a lot of  _ evers,  _ being demons and all."

Buffy bats her eyelashes at him. "Good thing you're supposed to catch up to me."

"No, I'm okay with this," Anya says. "Buffy's already established herself as the embarrassing drunk, so we don't have that much to lose."

Spike looks around the circle and finds everyone staring at him for an answer.

"Oh, bugger it," he says. "Why not? But  _ you,"  _ he tells Buffy, "are playing with water."

Buffy glares at him.

"I'll get you one," Tara tells her. "Spike, do you still have a drink?"

"I'll need another one, I expect," he answers. "You got enough hands?"

"Some help would be nice."

Spike goes with Tara into the kitchen, where he helps do up a round of mixed drinks, plus Buffy's water. 

"So…" Tara says casually.

"Stake me," says Spike.

She dumps an extra shot of tequila into his cup.

Back in the living room, the couch has been picked clean of cushions like some kind of massive animal carcass. Everyone's sitting on one of them on the floor except for Buffy, who's leaning back against the couch skeleton with her legs splayed and one foot tucked under the opposite thigh.

"Fuck's sake, love," Spike mutters fondly. He sets their drinks down near her knee and shrugs out of his coat, draping it over her like a blanket.

"What a gentleman," Halfrek says drily.

Spike scoffs and sits down next to Buffy. "Just don't wanna hear her complain about it tomorrow is all."

Buffy pats him on the knee.

Anya asks, "Okay, who wants to go first?"

"Ooh, I've got one!" Buffy says. "Never have I ever gotten so drunk I barfed."

"That's a jinx if I've ever heard one," Spike says, lifting his cup to drink. 

Anya and Tara both drink too—Spike raises an eyebrow at the latter skeptically.

"I was seventeen!" Tara says defensively.

Anya says, "Let's go clockwise. Spike, you're next."

"Uhh, never have I—no, wait forgot about Berlin." Spike looks up at the ceiling to think. "Ah! Never have I ever had a pet."

Halfrek, Tara, and Anya drink. Buffy asks, "Does a gigapet count?"

"Sure," says Spike. "Drink your water."

"Whatever,  _ mom." _

Tara's up next. She thinks for a minute, then says, "Um, never have I ever… gone skinny-dipping?"

Anya, Spike, and Buffy drink. 

Spike glances over at Buffy and asks, "Faith?"

"Faith," Buffy confirms. 

God, that makes him jealous. He's thinking about a moonlight night at the beach, tackling her into the waves…

"Never have I ever gotten engaged," says Halfrek.

"Hey!" Anya says. "That's not fair—you said that specifically to make  _ me  _ drink."

Halfrek shrugs. "I don't know these people. Maybe someone else has gotten married before."

Buffy wrinkles her nose. "Do we gotta…"

"'Fraid so, love," Spike tells her, and touches their cups together. "Cheers."

"Oh, that's right," Anya says excitedly. "I almost forgot about that."

Tara looks between them. "Did… I miss something?"

"Oh, this was a little bit before you and Willow met," Anya explains. "You see, Spike had just gotten the chip in his head and Buffy had him chained up in Giles' bathtub—"

It's at this point that Spike realizes exactly who this story doesn't cast in a favorable light.

"Uh, big sodding curse hit us," he says quickly. "From, uh—it was—"

"An amulet!" Buffy supplies.

"Yeah, right piece of work, that amulet."

"It cursed us so we, like, wanted to get married and stuff. We made out a  _ lot  _ and almost gave Giles a stroke."

Anya adds, "Luckily Giles was blind."

"The amulet also made Giles blind?" Tara asks.

"... Well," Spike says. "It was a big amulet."

Tara says, "You can just say it was a spell Willow did."

"It was a spell Willow did," says Anya. "She made us cookies afterwards, though."

Spike leans over and murmurs to Buffy, "Still got that ring, pet."

Buffy side-eyes him, apparently unimpressed. "Okay, Mr. 'I Think Weddings are Stupid.'"

Anya gasps. "You do?"

"That's not what I said!" Spike protests. "I said they were  _ human." _

"Same difference," says Halfrek.

Anya says, "It's my turn, right? Never have I ever thought weddings were stupid!"

Halfrek snorts. "You were a vengeance demon, honey. You've thought weddings were stupid for longer than these people have been alive."

"That's not true!" Anya says, pouting. "It's the men who ruin them. Weddings are beautiful."

Spike rolls his eyes and drinks anyway.

Buffy says, "Hmm. Never have I ever been a huge dick to my friend at her bachelorette party."

"I'm not drinking to that!" Spike says. He looks at Anya. "I don't have to drink to that, do I?"

Anya rolls her eyes. "No, it's fine."

"Thank you." Spike hums thoughtfully. "Never have—wait. Do you think it counts as—"

"Pick a different one," Buffy says.

"Never have I ever… lost at Never Have I Ever."

Buffy snorts and drinks, as does Tara.

"Um, I had a good one, hang on." Tara shimmies her shoulders a little, thinking. "Oh, right! Never have I ever gone skydiving."

Spike asks, "Do you mean on purpose?"

"Oh my God," says Buffy.

"How do you skydive on accident?" Anya asks.

"Well, first step is being in love with a crazy woman—"

"Hey!" say Buffy and Halfrek.

"Not you." Spike drinks for good measure.

Halfrek says, "Never have I ever been in love."

Everyone else drinks.

Anya says, "Never have I ever—haha, that's a funny one. Nevermind. Never have I ever had anal sex."

"Giving or receiving?" Spike asks.

Buffy raises an eyebrow at him. "Does it matter?"

"Might if Anya's lying."

_ "Rude,"  _ Anya says. And then, "... Receiving."

Buffy says, "Good for Xander."

Spike drinks, as does—

"Good for  _ Tara,"  _ says Buffy.

Tara's face is turning a bright shade of pink.

"Hmm," Buffy says. "Never have I ever had a threesome."

Spike's the only one who drinks.

"I have follow up questions," Anya tells him.

"All of 'em with Dru," he says obligingly. "Mostly people we ate afterwards."

Buffy looks too suspicious for how drunk she's still supposed to be. "Mostly?"

"Never have I ever owned a telephone."

Everyone groans.

"Okay, um." Tara spins her cup in her hands. "Never have I ever shoplifted."

Buffy drinks guiltily.

"Faith?" asks Spike.

"Faith."

He drinks too.

Halfrek says, "Never have I ever drank blood."

"Okay," Anya says, "you can't just keep picking ones that target—excuse me?"

Buffy puts her cup down, gaze shifting restlessly around the circle. "What?"

Spike asks, "Who—"

"Dracula," Buffy mumbles.

_ "Dracula?"  _ he repeats.

"Aww, don't be jealous!" Buffy tells him, patting his hand. "It was gross."

Spike protests, "I'm not  _ jealous." _

Buffy pokes him on the forehead. "You're making your jealous face."

"Do you think it was gross because it was Dracula?" Tara asks. "Or because it was vampire blood, or just because it was blood?"

Spike tells Buffy, "All I'm saying is, he's a bloody disgrace and he's not even that good-looking, and did I mention he owes me money?"

"Oh my God, let it go!" Buffy puffs her cheeks up and looks at the ceiling. "I bet your blood would taste  _ way  _ sexier, okay?"

Anya says, "Never have I ever had sex with Dracula."

Spike makes the calculated decision to lie through his teeth.

Buffy says, "Never have I ever gotten jealous because someone I was in love with drank someone else's—" she cuts off. "Fuck."

Spike grins lazily at her.

"Shut up!" she says. "Never have I ever, um, um, been cheated on with a chaos demon!"

That one stings. Spike drinks—as does Anya?

"I still think you should've let me curse her for you," Halfrek says consolingly.

Spike says, "Never have I ever liked the taste of blood."

Buffy smacks him on the ribs. "You're a  _ vampire!  _ Could you  _ be  _ any more obvious with the cheating?"

"Fine, Dracula's blood."

"I'm not drinking, you dummy!"

"Um," Tara says. "Maybe I should just go?"

"I think Spike should have to drink extra for cheating," says Anya.

He chugs half his remaining cup with his middle finger lifted off the side.

Scores settled, everyone turns to Tara. 

"Um," she says. "Never have I ever had a crush on a boy?"

Everyone besides Halfrek drinks. Spike feels Buffy watch him do it, but she doesn't seem surprised or bothered—she wriggles a little under his coat, shifting so that her knee brushes up against his thigh; he smiles lopsidedly at her.

"Well, that's easy," Halfrek says. "Never have I ever had a crush on a girl."

Huh. Spike's not sure if that means she only goes in for demons, or just doesn't go in for that sort of thing at all. In any case, the rest of them drink.

Spike looks at Buffy and asks, "Faith?"

She rolls her eyes. "Faith."

"Hey," Spike asks, a bit of tease creeping into his curiosity. "Did you two ever…"

Buffy crosses her arms over her chest. "None of your business."

Spike says, "Never have I ever had sex with Faith."

"Hey!" Anya says.

Buffy smiles sweetly at him and keeps her hands off her cup.

"You can't just skip me," Anya says. "Um, never have I ever had a sex dream about Buffy."

Spike doesn't look to see if anyone else drinks; he's too busy waggling his eyebrows at Buffy over the rim of his cup.

"Ugh, you know what?" Buffy complains, and then her voice turns all cheerleader pep. "Never have I ever written poetry."

Spike, affronted, shoots back, "Never have I ever gotten my own chewing gum stuck in my hair."

Buffy gasps. "Well, never have I ever tasted my own nose blood on  _ purpose." _

"Guys, this isn't how the game works!" Anya protests.

Spike raises his eyebrows at Buffy in challenge. "Never have I ever wanked someone in a movie theater."

"Never have I ever gone down on someone for so long I got lockjaw."

"That one's a compliment."

"Fine," says Buffy. "Never have I ever cried at  _ The Land Before Time  _ like a baby."

Spike narrows his eyes. "Never have I ever—"

"Hey!" Anya insists, raising her voice. "Slow down! I can't keep track of when I'm supposed to drink."

Spike and Buffy close their mouths guiltily and turn towards Anya, who has her  _ I'm the real boss of this magic shop  _ face on.

"Sorry, An," Spike mutters.

"Okay, you guys are banned from taking turns for, like, I think that was three rounds," Tara scolds. She raises her eyebrows at them judgmentally. "And also, never have I ever cheated at Never Have I Ever. I mean, come on."

Spike makes eye contact with Buffy while they both drink, her eyes twinkling playfully—he winks at her and she giggles into her cup.

"God," he says, "I love you."

Buffy rolls her eyes, smiling fondly.

Halfrek says, "Uh, woah."

"Oh, don't worry—we knew that," Anya explains. "It's kind of been a whole thing, but they're not actually together."

"Spells just keep making them think they are," says Tara.

"It is weird that that's happened twice," Anya muses.

Halfrek skeptically says, "Never have I ever been secretly dating someone at this party."

Buffy and Spike both giggle as they cheat again, still looking only at each other. She slumps lower against the couch, sort of half-sprawling on the floor with her cheek propped up on the edge of the furniture and his jacket pulled up to her chin.

"It was a good try," Tara tells Halfrek.

"Ugh," says Anya. "Never have I ever ignored my friend at her bachelorette party!"

They both drink.

Buffy tells him, "Never have I ever actually thought crying at  _ The Land Before Time  _ was lame."

"You were supposed to skip your turn," Anya reminds her.

Spike smiles at Buffy. "Never have I ever had the prettiest smile in the room."

She graces him with one, coupled with a furrowed brow in confusion.

"No more cheating, love," he teases, tapping her glass. "Drink up."

"Disgusting," says Halfrek.

Buffy drinks, then shoots back, "Well, never have I ever had the cutest nose."

"Never have I ever been the bravest person I know," says Spike.

"Never have I ever made the best hot chocolate when I'm sad."

Spike's face feels flushed; he should probably put down his drink. "Never have I ever—"

"I give up," says Anya.

~*~

"You're the best," Buffy is telling him, bumping her hip into his as they walk up to the house. She's wearing his jacket, the coattails of the duster nearly brushing the sidewalk at their feet, and only marginally sobered up from the drive home.

"Watch the ego, love," Spike warns playfully. "Gonna make it all swollen."

"Mm, I'll fix it later," she tells him, tightening her arm around his waist. "I like you right now."

Spike huffs out a laugh as he flips to the right key on his keyring. "And why's that?"

"'Cause you're the best," she repeats, tilting her head to smile up at him. "The best boyfriend."

Spike fumbles the keys against the lock; they drop to the floor. He takes a moment to pick them up, his fingertips scraping against the rough material of the doormat under their feet.

"I'm your boyfriend now, am I?" he asks lightly, trying the lock again.

Buffy pushes up onto her toes and bites at his ear.

Spike gets the door unlocked and both of them inside. He tosses the keys onto the little table in the foyer and doesn't bother with the lights. 

Buffy heads straight up the stairs, presumably for bed, but Spike goes to the kitchen to fill a glass of water and shake out two Aspirin in anticipation of the morning. 

From the top of the stairs, Buffy shouts, "Where's Dawn?"

"At a friend's house," Spike answers, poking his head around the corner. "Don't worry, I even called."

Buffy grins at him. "See? Best. Come lay down with me."

"Let me get my book," he tells her.

She vanishes back down the hallway. Spike finishes up in the kitchen, rescues his book from the living room, and heads up to join her.

Buffy's already curled up under the covers—still fully clothed, including his jacket. Her shoes, at least, are kicked off at the foot of the bed.

"You don't wanna slip into something more comfortable, love?" Spike teases, setting everything down on the nightstand and unlacing his boots.

"Mm." She shimmies onto her back and tosses her knickers onto the bedside lamp. "There."

Spike strips down to his boxers and crawls into the bed beside her, smiling softly when she immediately rolls over to rest her head on his chest. His duster smells heavily of cigarettes, mixing with the faint coconut of her hair where it tickles his chin.

"Mind if I read a little?" he murmurs, kissing the top of her head.

Buffy tugs the covers up over her eyes. "M'kay."

Spike tosses her thong onto a pile of dirty laundry on the floor and turns the lamp on, lighting up the room in a faint glow. It glints in her hair, liquid gold against his pallid skin.

He flips through the novel, looking for the page he lost when she rang him earlier. There's a good hundred pages he's supposed to get through by tomorrow night, but he can always read at work if it's slow. He cards his fingers absently through her hair, his needless breaths falling into time with hers out of habit and affection.

Buffy mutters something into the curve of his throat—so quietly, so…

He must've misheard. Must be half asleep himself, drowsing in her bed that smells like his tobacco and her booze and their sex from the night before, to think she'd ever—

"Buffy?" he asks quietly, brushing the hair from her face. "Did you…?"

Her face is soft with sleep, eyeliner smudging because she didn't even bother taking it off, a sliver of her teeth showing because she breathes with her mouth hung open a little when she's safe enough to finally rest.

Spike closes his eyes and waits for the ache to pass.

~*~

In the morning, Spike wakes up to the sting of his skin catching fire. He curses creatively and rolls off the bed with a yelp, yanking the duvet over himself to hide from the sunlight streaming in from the windows.

"Ughh," Buffy whines, and flops bodily over on the bed. "Close the curtains."

"Grand idea, pet!" Spike enthuses through gritted teeth. "Seeing as one of us will burst into fucking flames if—"

Buffy makes a gutteral sound that should be beyond her vocal register and rolls off the opposite side of the bed, sounding only marginally more graceful about it than Spike was under threat of combustion.

There's the sound of a metal ring popping off the curtain rod, but then the light becomes suitably muted and Spike can poke his head out from his makeshift shelter.

Buffy drags herself back into bed and burrows under the sheets. "Fuck me."

"Hangover cure's on the table," Spike tells her. He holds out an arm and winces—some minor singeing, but pre-smoke.

"Mm, cuddles is my hangover cure."

"Can I trade you for pancakes, love? We're a little crispy down here."

Buffy's face appears peering down at him. "Are you okay?"

"Nothing some cold water and that aloe gel won't fix," Spike says.

Buffy wrinkles her nose. "That stuff is grody."

Spike hauls himself upright using the bed for leverage. "Offer on the breakfast still stands."

"Did you get, like, any sleep?" Buffy asks skeptically, reaching for the alarm clock. "It's only— _ shit." _

"What?" Spike asks.

Buffy holds a pillow over her face and groans, "I forgot I've got work in thirty minutes."

"... Eggs and toast coming up in ten," Spike says. "I'll drive you."

Buffy muffles a thank you into her pillow.

Spike grabs his shirt and jeans from the night before off the floor and hops back into them, ignoring his belt and shoes. He taps his hand on the nightstand, drawing her attention back to the Aspirin, and starts the shower heating in the bathroom.

There are no messages on the machine, which means they probably haven't missed anything from Dawn. He thumbs through the call history on the cordless to find the right number and hits redial.

"Hello?" answers a woman on the other end.

Spike pulls a frying pan out of the cabinet. "Uh, morning. I'm Dawn's, uh—a friend of the family. Just checking what time she wants to get picked up?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, can you remind me of your name?" the woman asks. "It's just that the last time Dawn stayed over, a woman came and got her, I think her name was Tara?"

Spike drops two slices of bread in the toaster and switches the stove on. His skin itches all over where it's healing from the burn. "Uh, yeah, I called yesterday, spoke to your husband I think. My name's Will. We've been taking the village approach since Dawn's mum passed."

"Oh, that's right, I'm so sorry."

Spike listens to the sound of the shower running. "Buffy's—her sister's—getting ready for work, but I can get her on the line if you—"

"No, that's alright," the woman says. "But actually, my husband is driving all the girls home right now. Dawn told us she didn't need to call anyone first. If you need someone to watch her, though—"

"No, I'll be here all day, but, uh, appreciate it." Spike cracks an egg on the side of the frying pan. "Have a good one."

"You, too, Will," the woman says, and they hang up the phone.

Spike bites lightly at his tongue; he hates using that name, but it's hard enough getting parents to trust him with Dawn when he can't explain who he is. He adds a second egg to the pan and whacks the coffeemaker to see if he can get it going. 

They should really buy a new one, but Buffy keeps hemming and hawing about it. Spike checks the fridge for backup morning beverages.

Orange juice'll do the trick. He pours a glass, drinks half to clear the taste of ash from his mouth, and refills it.

He's just flipped the eggs when a car door opens and shuts outside. Dawn skips into the house and calls out, "Who's here?"

"Kitchen," Spike tells her. "Buffy's in the shower."

"Wow, was the party super lame?" Dawn asks, hopping up onto a stool behind him. "I totally thought she'd sleep 'til noon."

"She forgot she's got work."

"Tragic."

Spike hums. "Did they feed you?"

"Macy's dad made french toast," Dawn says, the nose wrinkle evident in her voice.

Spike scoops the eggs onto a plate and cracks two more into the pan. Next to him, the coffeemaker finally sputters into action. "There's pancakes in it for you if you be my sous chef. Running short on time."

"Major deal," Dawn says. She hops off her stool and grabs a mixing bowl from under the sink. "Can we add chocolate chips?"

"Whatever you want."

The water shuts off upstairs. Spike plucks the toast out of the toaster and drops it on a plate to cool.

"Spike?" Buffy shouts. He hears her making for the stairs. "Where's my—"

"Don't worry, Dawn's home!" Spike cuts in.

"—shoes?"

Spike, knowing she probably means  _ work bra,  _ shouts back, "Hamper!"

"Her  _ shoes  _ are in the hamper?" Dawn asks skeptically.

"Next to it," Spike says defensively.

Dawn dumps a cup of pancake mix into the bowl. "Psh, whatever. Are you gonna eat?"

"Nah," says Spike. "But thanks."

Buffy comes downstairs a few minutes later, dressed for work but bare-faced and with her hair still wrapped in a towel. She says, "Ooh, eggies," and grabs a plate.

"Coffee?" Spike offers.

"Irish?" Buffy asks hopefully.

He resists the urge to kiss her temple when he sets the mug down.

"How was the party?" Dawn asks.

"Mm." Buffy waves her fork at her. "Never get old enough to drink."

Spike huffs out a laugh.

"How was your sleepover?" Buffy asks.

Dawn says, "It was okay. We played Truth or Dare but everyone's dares were, like, so lame."

"'Cause they didn't involve vandalism or stealing stuff?" Buffy asks through a mouthful of egg.

"Ha. Ha." Dawn makes a quintessentially teenage face and flips the pancakes in the pan. "Janice got dared to eat a dog treat. That was kinda funny."

Buffy says, "Aww, you're making me all nostalgic."

"God," Spike says, "you humans are weird."

Dawn tells him, "Yeah, but you like us."

"That I do, bit. That I do."

Buffy cranes her neck to look at the clock. "Mm, what time is it?" She bites off a chunk of toast. "Ugh. Spike, five?"

"Whenever you're ready, pet," he says.

Buffy takes the plate upstairs with her.

Dawn slides two pancakes onto her plate. "Are you coming back after you drop Buffy off?"

"Why?" Spike asks. "You planning on putting on a rave?"

"Just, like, a medium one."

"Well, as long as it's only medium." Spike pats her on top of the head once. "See you in fifteen. We'll do laundry."

Dawn says, "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," Spike says absently, leaving her in charge of the kitchen. "Where're my bloody—"

Buffy chucks his boots down the stairs.

"Thanks, love."

She tosses the belt down after. "Ready?"

Spike tilts his head towards the door. "Blanket?"

"Shit." She vanishes around the corner again. "Here."

It hits him in the face while he's tying his shoes. They make it out the door in six, though, which is pretty good all things considered. Buffy sits with her breakfast in her lap and spills coffee over the seats.

"Okay, be honest," she says, then winces when a car blares its horn at Spike for running a red light. "How totally embarrassing was last night?"

Side glances at her sidelong. "Do you remember it?"

"Yes," Buffy says defensively. "Mostly. It's just… fuzzy."

"Uh huh." Spike gets stuck behind a minivan at the next light. "Does it get fuzzy before or after you told everyone about my killer abs?"

Buffy groans.

"Not to worry, love," Spike reassures her, taking pity. "Hal—hang onto the mug—Halfrek couldn't care less where anyone's putting their bits and Anya was too busy being annoyed we weren't getting drunk properly."

Buffy says, "Thank God all our friends are weirdos."

They pull up outside the Doublemeat.

"Here's your stop, love." Spike unlocks the doors. "What time do you get off?"

"Mm," Buffy says, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "Like five minutes after you pick me up?"

Spike smirks at her.

"Three-thirty," she says. "I can walk, though."

"I don't mind," says Spike. "I've just got work at sunset."

"And you wanna get off," Buffy teases.

"Well, yeah," says Spike.

Buffy pats him on the knee. "See ya at three-thirty."

She slips quickly out of the car, mindful of catching him in the light. He watches her go while he can, then reaches over and drains the rest of the coffee mug so it doesn't spill on the drive home.

~*~

"Do you think this is enough little finger foods?" Anya asks, frowning at the plates. "And why do they call them finger foods? Is it because you hold them in your fingers? Because technically you hold all foods in your fingers."

Xander says, "What about forks, sweetie?"

"The fork is attached to your fingers, Xander."

Spike pulls a tray of mini-quiches out of the oven. He's not sure why they made mini-quiche when Buffy hates normal quiche, but the last time he criticized something about this birthday party, Buffy gave him a look that said,  _ please just go along with this or so help me God,  _ so now he's keeping his mouth shut when she can hear him.

"Hey, guys, looks great!" Buffy says, bustling back into the kitchen. "What time is it? Oh, jeez, people are gonna be here soon. Are there enough balloons?"

"Buff, it looks great," Xander tells her. "Take a rest, alright? Do the honors and break into the booze."

Buffy says, "I just want it to be a nice party, you know? A  _ normal  _ party. Where the big problem is 'do we have enough chips?' Oh, shoot, do we have enough chips?"

Spike tosses his oven mitts onto the counter. "If we run out of chips I'll pop over to the shop, pet."

"Yeah, and then we'll lock him out while he's gone and it'll be fun for all," says Xander.

Buffy raises her eyebrows at him.

There's a knock at the back door—Spike's closest, so he goes to answer it.

"Clem!" he greets, leaning in for a quick hug. "Glad you could make it, mate."

"I wouldn't miss it," says Clem. He holds up a six pack, making eye contact with Buffy. "Happy birthday, Buffy!"

"Aww, thanks, Clem!" Buffy nudges Spike out of the way to hug Clem herself. "Thanks for coming!"

Xander says, "Oh, boy. We've got a problem."

Buffy looks at him, frowning in confusion. "What? Clem's nice. Everyone, meet Clem!"

"Uh," Xander says, and he's got that shifty look he gets when he's cocked something up. "It's just that, heh, you see—"

"We invited a date for you!" Anya says. "Because you've been sad and lonely and we thought that sex might help."

_ "What?"  _ Spike growls.

Buffy's smile freezes in place. "What?"

"Should I put the beer in the fridge, maybe?" asks Clem.

"Xander knows him from work!" Anya says brightly. "He's very nice to look at and he's completely normal, so he'll probably be confused by Clem. No offense, Clem, you also seem very nice. You have wonderful skin flaps."

"Aww, shucks," says Clem.

Spike says, "Buffy doesn't need a blind date. Or any date, for that matter."

_ "Any  _ date, huh?" Buffy asks.

He glares at her.

"Spike's right, though, you guys," Buffy tells them, ignoring him. "I'm… not so much for the big romance right now."

"See, that's why you should meet Richard," Xander says. "The guy is  _ medium  _ romance. He's aaall average."

"Wow, you're really selling it here," Spike snarks. "Watch out, Slayer, maybe I want ole Dick for myself."

Buffy pleasantly suggests, "Spike, why don't you start taking food into the other room?"

"Nah, I'm good."

_ "Now." _

Spike snatches up a tray in each hand and sulks his way over to the living room, where Dawn is obsessively reorganizing the stack of presents.

"You look like someone gave you a wedgie," she says.

Spike makes a childish face at her and creeps back towards the kitchen, lurking around the corner so he can eavesdrop. Apparently the others have been booted too, because he glimpses Anya striking up a conversation with Clem in the dining room.

"I know you got burned with Riley," Xander is saying. "But you've gotta get back on the horse, Buff."

"But, see, I'm a  _ really  _ fast runner," Buffy says, laughing nervously. "So I don't really need a horse, y'know? I mean, not that horses aren't, um, nice, but…"

"Just give the guy a chance, okay?" Xander asks. "He's really excited to meet you."

Buffy says exasperatedly, "Xander, I really wish you hadn't—where is this even coming from?"

A pause.

Xander says, "Look, Anya told me about the bachelorette party."

"Oh, my God," says Buffy. "Look, between you and me, Anya was  _ wasted,  _ okay? I mean, I wasn't gonna say anything, 'cause it's her party and all, but  _ whew  _ was that girl—"

"Buffy, it's understandable," Xander says gently. "You get a little drunk, Spike happens to be there… you flirt a little. I mean, in his twisted way or whatever, he makes you feel special—but you  _ are  _ special, and you can make a real connection with someone, you know, with a pulse."

Buffy says, "Xander—"

"It's okay," he tells her. "We know you don't really like him."

_ Say you do, _ Spike begs her silently. He leans his head back against the wall.  _ Just say you do. _

"I'm just not all… relationship-bound right now," Buffy answers. "I'm focusing on more important stuff. Like family."

"... Okay, I'm sorry." When Spike hazards a glance around the corner, they're hugging. "You want me to tell him nevermind when he gets here?"

Buffy says, "Nah, it's okay, he can stay. I'll let him down easy. Maybe we'll be friends."

"Man, it's been a while since we had a normal one of those."

Buffy says wryly, "That's 'cause we keep turning them into weird friends."

"Occupational hazard," Xander agrees.

Someone rings the doorbell; Spike shouts, "I'll get it!" and pushes away from the wall.

It's Tara, who's fiddling with the sleeves of her cardigan, a present tucked under one arm. "Um, hi."

"Hey, pet," Spike says, stepping away from the door to welcome her in. "Glad you're here."

"M-maybe this was a bad idea," she answers, walking inside. "It's gonna be too awkward."

"Not to worry," Spike tells her, glancing towards the living room, where no one's paying attention. "Our lovely soon-to-be weds brought Buffy a blind date, which is sure to eclipse any awkwardness you and Red'll have."

Tara's eyes widen. "Oh, are you okay?"

"Livin' large," Spike says. "Presents in the living room."

Tara pats him on the arm consolingly.

"Besides, Buffy wants you here," Spike adds, following her into the other room. "Made a point of it."

Tara smiles and says, "Th-thanks."

"Spike?" Buffy calls. "Did you eat?"

Right. Mustn't drink blood in front of the very special new friend. Spike shouts back, "Coming!"

"Good luck," says Tara.

He touches two fingers to his temple in a mock salute.

~*~

"Ohh, this was a bad idea," says Willow. "It's gonna be too awkward. Is she here already? Did she say anything about me?"

"It's gonna be fine, Red," Spike says patiently. "Besides, Buffy wants you here."

Willow straightens her shoulders determinedly. "Right! This is for Buffy. I can do it for Buffy."

"Been saying that all afternoon," says Spike, half to himself. "Oh, presents in the living room."

Willow ventures forth.

~*~

"Sorry, wrong house," Spike tells the bloke at the door. "Buffy doesn't live here."

"Oh my  _ God,"  _ says Buffy, hip-checking him away from the door. "He's kidding. Hi, I'm Buffy."

The stranger says, "Oh, um, hi, I'm Richard."

"You're Xander's friend, right? It's nice to meet you," Buffy tells him. "Come on in."

Richard asks, "Oh, actually, I was wondering where I should park my car?"

"Oh, that's easy—anywhere on the block is fine, basically." Buffy stands on her tiptoes to point down the street. "Do you see that black car? Behind there's good."

"Cool," Richard says. "Uh, I'll be right back."

Buffy watches him go. As soon as he's out of earshot, she prods Spike's sternum and threatens, "Be nice!"

Spike snorts. "Yeah, whatever."

"It's not his fault and you know it," Buffy says exasperatedly.

"Yeah," Spike mutters, stalking away. "Whose is it then?"

Buffy watches him go.

~*~

"Wait, really?" Buffy asks. "Mini-golf?"

"Oh, yeah," Richard tells her. "I mean, I'm not nationally ranked or anything, but I'm pretty good."

Buffy asks, "There's national rankings for that stuff?"

"Oh, yeah," Richard says. "People get really into it. Hey, we should go sometime."

"Aw, that would be fun!" Buffy says politely. "We could all go." She reaches over and nudges Spike with her foot. "You're off next Saturday, right?"

Spike looks up from his half-hearted blackjack game with Dawn and Clem. "Uh, not sure that'll be my scene. You know, with my… thing."

Buffy frowns. "We can check their hours. Maybe they're open after dark?"

"Why after dark?" Richard asks.

"Oh, Spike's, um," Buffy flounders. "Allergic? To the sun."

Spike smiles tightly. "That's a way to put it."

"Oh, that blows, man," Richard tells him. "Sorry to hear."

"Wow, when was the last time any of us played mini-golf?" Xander reflects. "Was it—"

"Ted," Buffy says, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

Dawn shudders exaggeratedly.

Spike looks around the group. "Who's Ted?"

"Oh, this was the good ole days," Xander says. "You know, back when you were evil."

"Evil?" Richard asks skeptically.

"Rival high schools!" Buffy says quickly, interjecting a nervous laugh. "You know how us Sunnydale people get about our football."

Spike says, "Oh, yeah. I was, uh. You know, the one who catches the ball."

Buffy narrows her eyes at him.

Dawn tugs on Spike's sleeve and explains, "Ted was this guy Mom dated for a while. He was always really nice to me, but I guess he was super awful to Buffy, like, hitting her and stuff, but no one believed her at first."

Spike glances over at Buffy, who's already back to playing Monopoly like nothing's happened. 

"That was before I knew about Slayer stuff," Dawn says. "But Willow told me later that he was actually a robot."

"Thanks for the catch-up, nibblet," Spike says.

It's weird—being reminded of all the history he missed, sometimes. Thinking about the fact that back then he would've been delighted to hear someone was smacking the Slayer around.

Now it just makes his skin crawl.

He can't even tell her so. She's laughing about some joke he missed, probably, and Richard keeps touching the small of her back while they talk in a way that makes Spike's stomach turn.

Dawn says, "Okay, hit me again," and Spike dumps the deck of cards onto the floor when he stalks away.

Tara's hiding out in the kitchen too, nursing what smells like wine in a red Solo cup and picking at a bowl of trail mix. She looks up when Spike walks in and says, "Hey."

"Hey," he mutters, opening the fridge to get himself a beer. He pops the cap off with his teeth and spits it onto the counter.

"Is—are you okay?" Tara asks worriedly.

Spike says, "Yeah, I just—"

"Okay," Buffy demands, startling him with her appearance. "What's your deal?"

Spike scoffs, taking a bristling swig of his beer. 

Tara says, "I—I'll just be… bye!" and flees the room.

Buffy comes to stand directly across from him, crossing her arms over his chest. "I'm serious. What's going on with you?"

"It's nothing," Spike says.

"You've been weird ever since—" Buffy cuts off, tilting her gaze up to the ceiling. "Oh, my God. You're jealous."

Spike laughs dismissively. "Please, are you off your bird?"

"You totally are!" Buffy accuses. "You seriously think I'm gonna, what, run off with Richard into the sunset?"

"No, Buff, I don't." Spike puts his beer down, gripping the underside of the counter with both hands to steady himself. "I'm not a complete moron—I know Cardboard Junior out there isn't getting your motor revving."

Buffy turns a palm up exasperatedly. "Then what's got you doing your best Angel impression? 'Cause I've gotta tell you, the broody looked better on him."

Spike sighs, clenching his jaw. He glances at the coffeemaker beside him, the mug in the sink that's permanently stained a little red.

"'Cause we both know one day you'll find yourself the good version," he tells her earnestly, shaking his head a little. "And it'll be the sunrise you're riding off into. Someone who can take you for walks in the park and all that shit."

"We patrolled the park last night," she says.

"Buffy," Spike says tiredly.

Buffy rolls her eyes and says, "You're such an idiot. C'mere."

She hops up onto the counter beside him, out of view from the doorway, and pulls him between her legs.

Spike blinks at her, turning his palm up in her hand. She traces her index finger up it, heel to the tip of his middle finger, and then cups the back of his head and pulls him down to rest his head on her shoulder.

"I can play mini-golf, Spike. I can walk in the fucking park." She presses her cheek to his temple. "I don't need to be dating anyone to do that."

Spike mutters, "I wasn't—"

"What I  _ need,"  _ Buffy says firmly, and her fingers card gently through the short hairs at the base of his skull, "is someone who gets me—all of me. Who loves me for the Slayer and the girl."

Spike closes his eyes, letting a  _ whuff _ of air leave his lungs.

Buffy kisses the top of his head. "And, okay, maybe Richard could do that—maybe Riley could've if I'd let him. But so do you."

"Buffy." Spike looks up at her, his chest aching. "I…"

"I can't… I'm not sure I do 'forever' anymore," Buffy tells him. She smiles sadly, her gaze going a little distant before she settles on his face again. "I think we both know I'm not gonna be around for it. But it's not because it's you."

Spike takes a shaky breath. He straightens, folding both his hands over hers, and half-jokes, "How soon can we toss out these freeloaders so you can take me upstairs and shag me blind?"

Buffy laughs, hopping off the counter. "Maybe after the cake."

"Yeah, alright," Spike says, quirking his lips at her. He reaches for his beer.

Buffy squeezes his wrist and heads back towards the other room.

"I do, you know," Spike tells her, when she's over the threshold and her fingertips are catching on the doorframe. "It's every bit of you, Buffy."

She doesn't have to turn around for him to know she's smiling. 

~*~

"Ooh! Ooh! Open mine next!" Dawn says, shoving the meticulously wrapped present into Buffy's lap.

Buffy says, "Okay, jeez. It's not gonna explode or something is it?"

"That happened  _ one time,"  _ says Dawn.

Buffy rolls her eyes and tears through the wrapping paper in typical, brutal fashion. She opens up the box and gasps with delight when she gets a look at the jacket.

"Aww, Dawnie!" she says, pulling the nibblet into a hug. "It's beautiful, thank you."

She makes eye contact with Spike over Dawn's shoulder, quirking her lips, all,  _ I know you paid for this. _

He shrugs innocently back.

"I was worried you wouldn't like it," Dawn tells her.

"Of course I like it," Buffy says. She pulls away and unfolds the jacket, admiring the details. "I've been meaning to get a new one after the last one—" She cuts off, glancing at Richard. "Got… tomato sauce all over it."

"Bitch to clean," Spike agrees drily. "Tomato sauce, that is."

Buffy shoots him a dirty look as she carefully refolds the jacket.

"Okay, our turn!" Xander says. "Buffy, close your eyes."

She laughs. "Uh oh, that never ends well."

Dawn lunges and covers Buffy's eyes, giggling as Buffy yelps and tries to shove her off without hurting her. "Xander, go now!"

Xander and Anya rush into the other room.

Buffy says, "Okay, okay, I'll keep them closed. Why are your hands  _ sticky,  _ you little weirdo?"

Dawn sticks her tongue out at her as she sits back down. In the meantime, Xander and Anya come back rolling an intricately carved wooden chest between them.

Xander says, "Okay, open."

"Oh my God, you  _ guys!"  _ Buffy gasps, covering her mouth with both hands. "Did you make this?"

She climbs off the couch to inspect the chest, which Xander is explaining is for her weapons collection. It's a thing of beauty, Spike's gotta admit. Very Buffy.

He takes the opportunity of her distraction to reach behind the couch, where he hid her present this morning.

"One more for you over here, Buff," he tells her with a smirk, jiggling the bag. 

Buffy goes full murder-eyes when she looks over. She laughs threateningly and asks, "Are you sure you don't want me to open that later?"

"No, no, you've gotta open it now," Spike insists, his smile spreading into a shit-eating grin. "Everyone else's getting theirs opened now."

"Yeah, Buffy, you've gotta!" Dawn says eagerly. "I wanna see how Spike's gonna top Christmas."

"Not planning on topping anything, nibblet."

Buffy blinks rapidly and comes to sit on the couch again. "Uh huh."

Spike places the bag on the coffee table in front of her; she glances at him suspiciously when she hears the weight of it being set down, then plunges her hand into the bag without taking any of the tissue paper out.

Her expression goes from horror to confusion to anger to relief in rapid succession, and then she pulls the new coffeemaker out of the bag like she's planning on braining him with it.

"Oh, thank  _ God,"  _ she says, staring at the picture on the box.

"Wow," says Richard. "You must really like coffee."

Buffy's laugh verges on hysterical.

"More of a present for me, really," Spike tells her. 

"Yeah," Buffy says, flipping the box over. "It's got all those fancy buttons and stuff that no one needs."

Spike says, "I hear it even makes coffee when you actually tell it to."

"Oh, boy, did you get conned or what?" Willow jokes.

Buffy puts the box down on the table and pulls Spike into a hug and says, "Thank you." Then, privately in his ear, "I  _ hate  _ you."

"Just keeping you on your toes, love," Spike tells her, grinning from ear to ear.

Her hand  _ thwocks  _ against his ribs.

"Is that all the presents?" Dawn asks eagerly. "Can we do cake now?"

"Okay, Miss Eager Beaver," Buffy says, reaching over to shove her gently. "Go get the cake."

Dawn quickly says, "Nose goes!" and everyone's hands fly to their faces.

Clem is left staring at the group in bewilderment.

"Are you guys okay?" Clem asks worriedly. "Are you under some kind of spell?"

Spike sighs, slapping his hands on his knees as he stands. "C'mon, mate, I'll explain in the kitchen."

Buffy trips him when he tries to move around the coffee table.

~*~

Buffy's teeth are gentle against his bottom lip, worrying softly at it as her hand slides up his chest, over the shirt. "Do you think they're asleep now?"

"Bloody well better be," Spike murmurs, nudging her face up with his temple. "Look at that moon."

They're curled up on an Adirondack chair together on the back deck, Spike's jacket draped over them both. It's well past midnight; Clem and Richard both left hours ago, but the Scoobies decided to make a camp-out of it on the living room floor.

Last they checked, Willow and Dawn were still awake when Spike begged off for a smoke and Buffy quietly followed. He's lost track of the time since then.

"At least it's pretty," Buffy offers.

Spike hums, kissing the nearest bit of her that he can reach. "If you wanna join 'em…"

"Nah," says Buffy, stretching languidly. "Sleep is for the weak—and for people who don't have fun sex plans on their birthday. Plus, we can't let Rusty's last cup of coffee die in vain."

Spike chuckles and agrees, "Wouldn't be right."

Buffy settles against his chest, laying her head just below his collar bone. She'd hear a heartbeat, if he had one. "Maybe just a few more minutes. This is nice."

He tightens his arms around her, gazing out over the yard. The fire pit—his much-praised Christmas gift to the household—is barely visible by the glow of the porch light.

He'd stay out here forever if she asked. The last thing he'd see would be her face lit up by the sunrise.

"Okay," Buffy says, wrapping the jacket around her as she slides to her feet. "It's now or bust."

Buffy goes in through the house and opens the bedroom window for Spike to climb through—well, after she wiggles her fingers sweetly at him and leaves him stranded on the roof for nearly a minute.

"Cute," Spike tells her drily, when the latch is shut behind him.

She drags him down into a kiss.

Spike walks her backwards to the bed, but she tosses him down onto it when they get there. He runs his tongue over his teeth when she straddles him, catching his wrists and pinning them above his head.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Yeah, baby, gonna give it to me good?"

Buffy rolls her hips, pressing him deeper into the mattress. "Like this?"

"Any way you want it, pet," he says.

Buffy kisses down his neck, a single flick of her tongue, and then sits up. "Where is it?"

"Back of the closet, behind the shoe boxes," Spike says, and stays where she put him.

Buffy comes back with the bag and plops down next to him on the bed. She pulls out the harness first, running her fingers over the straps, and then sets the dildo between their thighs.

"Um," she says, uncharacteristically embarrassed. "What if I'm really bad at it?"

Spike sits up, brushing his arm against her back. "Don't think I've ever seen you be bad at anything, love."

Buffy laughs. "You weren't at Sunnydale High School's annual talent show."

He kisses her shoulder through the leather. "Was your talent rogering the handsome vampire you've been having mind-blowing sex with for coming up on three months?"

"Yeah," Buffy says. "How'd you know?"

Spike nuzzles the side of her neck and says, "If it's bad we'll laugh it off and do one of the other three hundred things you're good at in the sack."

"Last week you said five hundred."

"Maybe we should wait," Spike suggests. He nips at her, feeling her shudder. "Try on a night with less pressure."

"No, I—I wanna." Buffy tilts his chin up and kisses him sweetly. "I just needed to hear that."

They fall back against the pillows, laying on their sides and touching each other gently. Her mouth soft against his, her nails stroking up and down his bare arm. Their bodies slotting together on instinct, like creatures more earnest than human.

Buffy helps him out of his shirt. She kisses down his chest in a way she rarely does—slowly, like she's seeing it for the first time. Like the thought of him's never disgusted her. Her lips tingle against the ugly scar on his gut, lingering there, and then her fingers are at his belt.

"Buffy," he breathes.

She kisses the tip of his cock, looking up at him from under her lashes. Three months and she's about to make it three hundred and one.

"You don't have to—"

Buffy says, "Shut up," and sucks him into her mouth.

Spike swears softly and fists his hands in the sheets, already fighting to keep his hips from jerking. She blows him like she's done it before; he's not sure how long it's been since she did it for anyone.

He used to fantasize about this more—especially in the beginning. But the longer he knew her, the more he wanted to belong to her. To submit. It still feels like that, really. Like it's something she's gracing him with—something he's earned, not something he's taking.

God, he wishes he knew why.

Spike's fingers brush her hair away from her face. He asks, "Can I…?"

She hums her assent; he tangles them loosely in her hair, tugging just enough for her to feel it, and she hums in pleasure instead.

One of her hands is wrapped around the base of his cock. The other glides up the mattress and finds his hand, taking it in hers. She shifts, bracing her forearm against his thigh for leverage.

"Fuck, Slayer," Spike tells her. "Gonna be my death."

Buffy swirls her tongue as her eyes flutter shut. She bobs her head, all wet heat and the tight grip of her fist keeping him where she wants him, her pretty hair—god, he loves her hair—turning wild under his touch. 

Spike digs his teeth into his bottom lip; his fangs slip out, whole body twitching on the edge of release. He tastes his own blood. She drops his hand and pins him by the hip hard enough to bruise.

"Please," he begs, even though she's not denying him. She just—he just— "Oh, love."

She strokes her thumb over the bone like she's soothing a wild animal. 

Spike says, "'M close. God, Buffy, you— _ ah." _

Buffy pulls back a little when he comes, catching it in her mouth and leaning over to spit into the bedside rubbish bin.

He lays there watching her, dazed, until she crawls back up his body and kisses gently at his puncture wounds.

"Huh," she teases, smiling against his mouth. "Better than Dracula."

"Which half?" he asks.

"Dick," she says. Then, "Ugh, as in the—"

He kisses her again.

Buffy runs a hand up his ribs, then over to thumb at a nipple. "Mm, d'you need a minute or…"

"'S'perfect. Thanks, love," he murmurs. "But you don't want…?"

"Not right now," she tells him. "I just wanna…"

She pinches lightly at his nipple; he gasps against her, back lifting off the bed.

Smirking, Buffy reaches for the lube. Spike draws up his knees with his feet flat on the bed in anticipation, swallowing thickly as he watches her. The coat hides her frame and her hair falls around her face and it's still her in every move. When she looks at him, her mouth is shiny and swollen.

Buffy settles between his legs, running her hand up and down the inside of his thigh, and squeezes lube onto one of her fingers. She traces it over his entrance for a moment, resting her cheek on his knee and watching with her breath held.

They both breathe out when she pushes in.

Spike tilts his head back, adjusting to the sensation. It's easier since he's come already—is glad he asked for that—but no one's touched him here in a long time.

"Oh," Buffy says softly. 

She shifts a little, awkward with the movement of it at first, before she finds a rhythm in short strokes, just barely to the second knuckle.

"Is that…?" she asks. "Good?"

"Yeah," Spike says, watching her with half-lidded eyes. "It's… you can go deeper."

Buffy nods, still resting her cheek on his knee. She slips her finger all the way in and twists it a little experimentally and, oh,  _ that's _ good. He makes a needy sound high in his throat.

"It's so… weird," Buffy marvels. Then quickly, "Not bad weird. Just…"

"Yeah," Spike tells her. He shuts his eyes, wriggling his hips back into her, feeling a flush creeping up his chest. "You're—"

"Inside you," she says. "I can feel you."

Spike inhales shakily. "Buffy…"

"You're so pretty." Buffy crooks her finger, grazing his prostate. Her teeth drag gently against his knee. "Do I ever tell you that?"

Spike breathes out. "Only when you're drunk."

"Oh." She pulls out, leaving him with the phantom ache of it, and he hears the lube snapping open again. "I'm sober and you're pretty. Can I do two?"

"Please," he says.

She's a little rougher with it—more confident, maybe, but he likes it that way. Likes her that way. 

Spike says, "Yeah, baby, that's it. Can you crook 'em again, like— _ fuck." _

"Can you come from this?" Buffy asks, and now that she knows where his sweet spot is she's as relentless as she is in everything else, pressing up against him and watching him writhe with the smell of her knickers soaking through permeating the air.

Spike swallows restlessly, his throat bobbing. "Takes a while. Better if you—"

"Fuck you?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, baby."

"Now?" she asks, a hint of worry creeping back in. He opens his eyes and finds her pupils blown wide, fixed on his face. "It's a lot bigger than two."

Spike drags his teeth over his bottom lip, threatening to reopen the barely-closed wounds. "Like it tight. Wanna feel you."

Buffy's voice is dry with hunger. "Okay."

She shrugs out of his jacket, letting it pool around her on the bed, over his feet. Pulls her blouse over her head and drops it to the side and bites her lip when she frees her breasts from her bra. 

Spike licks his lip, eyes tracing over her in the low light.

Buffy stands to strip out of her trousers and underwear, then reaches for the harness and holds it thoughtfully in her hands—like there's power to it, which there is. Like it's a weapon, which he trusts her to not turn it into.

"Mind if I do the honors?" Spike asks, surprising himself with it—feeling foolish, suddenly.

Buffy smiles and says, "C'mere."

He slides off the bed and onto his knees in front of her, looking up with the curve of his throat on display.

Buffy puts the harness in his hands; he helps her slip each foot through the loops, dragging his nose up one of her thighs as he pulls the straps up to rest against her hips. He tightens them carefully, pressing open mouth kisses to her skin and relishing the way she shivers.

His mouth waters a little, smelling how wet she's gotten for it. He aches to kiss her there, taste her, make her quiver, do something worth what she's about to give. Make her want him just a little more. Just to be safe.

But it's not what she asked for. He kisses just below her navel instead, eyes closed and breath trembling, and she cards her fingers through his hair and just stands there, barely touching him, until his knees start to bruise.

"Spike," she says softly.

He looks up, wordlessly wide-eyed and pleading.

Buffy guides him back onto the bed; he puts himself on hands and knees, then sinks to his forearms instead. His head bowed, forehead kissing his knuckles.

"Like this?" Buffy asks. 

It feels like it'll kill him, otherwise. The idea of being able to see the way she looks at him, let her taste how bad he wants it on his tongue.

"Yeah," Spike says. "Helps with the angle."

He doesn't look, but he feels her settle on her knees behind him. She skims a hand up his flank before her weight shifts again—getting the dildo, maybe.

Then the sound of the lube squirting again, and she slicks him back up with two cool fingers first. 

Buffy kisses the base of a rib where it meets his spine. She straightens, putting one hand on his hip and using the other, he thinks, to line herself up. 

Spike closes his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose, reminding himself to relax. He tilts his hips up a little, encouraging her, and she reads him right—pushes in slowly, her own breath held above him.

She slicked the dildo, too—must've, from how wet it feels. There's still a little sting, by his own request, that makes his nostrils flare and his chest ache with the sensory memory. Fangs at the nape of his neck, breath smothered and useless in the pillow.

Buffy tries a little thrust, then a second, working a little deeper. She misjudges the third, probably—driving into him in a way that makes his teeth hurt.

"Not so deep yet, love," Spike asks, and marvels at the idea that she'll listen.

"Sorry," she says, a little timidly. "It's… hard to feel."

"S'okay." Spike looks, though he told himself he wouldn't. Thinks, briefly, deliriously, of Orpheus gazing into damnation. "Not like you can kill me.”

She smiles. Her hair's all falling in her face and getting so long it almost kisses her breasts in modesty, and he can still feel her hands on his hips—can still feel her heavy inside him. Nothing about her has gone away.

Buffy pulls back again and takes shallower strokes, her fingers pressing lightly on his bruised hip and guiding him against her. He closes his eyes again and slinks lower on his front, sprawling out beneath her as she takes him.

"That's…" he breathes. "That pace, but you can… deeper, now."

Buffy runs a hand up his spine, pressing down between the tips of his shoulder blades, other hand dropping from his hip to brace on the mattress instead.

Spike takes the hint and slides off his knees, sinking with her until she's covering him with her body, warming him with her heat even like this. She rolls her hips and he lifts his a little to fix the angle and sobs against his knuckles.

Buffy giggles and bites his shoulder. 

"Fuck," he tells her. "Buffy."

"This is…" Another bite, another slow drag over his prostate. "Do you feel like this every time?"

Spike gasps. "What's it—feel like?"

Her forehead pressed to the back of his shoulder, her hand down a ladder of bones and mismatching over his purpled hip, hot breath damp against his empty skin.

"I—I don't know how…" Buffy grips him tighter, rocking into him. Her other hand tangles with his against the headboard. "It's like I wanna eat you."

He can smell her dripping for it. Pictures it smearing against her thighs, mixing with the scent of her blood under the vulnerable skin. 

Spike says, "I always wanna eat you, love."

"Even now?" she asks. 

Her lips dragging up to the crook of his neck, hot and open-mouthed, teeth latching over the vein.

"I'd let you kill me," he says instead.

"I know," she tells him. "Can I turn you over?"

Spike nods shakily; she pulls out while he rolls onto his back and slips a pillow under his hips.

Buffy smears more lube onto the dildo and wipes the excess onto the comforter. She drops the bottle and crawls back over him—straddling his hips out of habit before she remembers.

"Oops," she says, positioning herself between his thighs instead. She leans forward, a hand braced by the side of his neck, and touches their foreheads together. "Hi."

Wondrously, Spike brushes her hair back from her face. "Hi, baby."

Her pupils are blown wide, swallowing the blue-green of her eyes. She wets her bottom lip as she lines herself back up and pushes inside.

The slide is easier now. Spike's head tilts back as she takes him, his throat bobbing and his sigh caught in her mouth. She works on finding the rhythm again and he rocks his hips to help her, to welcome her, to say  _ take, take, and so this too is yours.  _

Her hand cups the side of his face sweetly, tenderly, and she kisses down his jaw and buries her face in the side of his neck, and it feels like he's being cracked apart.

He believes, for a moment, that she loves him.

The way she touches him, the way her lips feel against his throat, the way she fucks him and it doesn't even hurt.

If even this isn't love—

"Oh," Buffy says, a little like grief. Her thumb smears through the wetness on his cheek. "I'm sorry. Did I…?"

If even this isn't love, he's never been loved before.

Spike smiles reassuringly; he places his hand over hers, caressing the knuckles. His voice shakes when he says, "It's not that kind, love."

Buffy's smile is sad in return. She dips down and kisses him again, no teeth. Her hips roll slowly, like another apology, and he can't bring himself to tell her there's nothing to be sorry for.

"Is it good?" she whispers, thumbing again at his cheek. "Should I…?"

Spike slips a hand into her hair and strokes the other between her shoulder blades. "It's bloody perfect, love. Knew it would be. You're perfect."

She bites his lip. "Liar."

"I'd never," he says.

Buffy puts more power behind her next thrust. "Do you wanna come?"

"Not gonna have a choice if you keep doing that."

She sucks his earlobe into her mouth and does it again.

"Fuck," Spike breathes.

Her hand trails down his stomach. "Do you want me to touch you?"

"Don't need it," he murmurs, nuzzling against her cheek.

"Would it make it better?"

Spike says, "Like not needing it."

Buffy caresses his thigh instead, tickling the back of his knee, urging him to wrap his leg around her waist. She holds him there, kissing fiercely at his neck and snapping her hips and burying him, setting him to sea, turning him again.

"Buffy," he says. "Buffy."

"Tell me you love me," she says, and he comes sobbing it into her hair.  _ I love you, I love you, look what I've become. _

She kisses the underside of his jaw, his cheek. Pulls out carefully and then rolls off of him onto her back, her hand searching for his in the space between them.

Spike touches at his face, damp with fresh tears. She did him hard enough to leave him sore at the end; the backs of his thighs already ache. He gazes up at the ceiling, her hand warm in his, and tries to find what to say.

Buffy loosens the straps on her harness and wiggles out of it one-handed. He listens to her set it on the nightstand, then to the sound of her pulling two tissues from the box and handing them over.

Spike cleans up the mess on his stomach and says, "That was—"

"Wow," says Buffy.

"Sums it up," says Spike. "You haven't come yet."

She hums, rolling against his side and draping an arm across his middle. "I like the sound of 'yet.'"

He kisses her, flicking his tongue against her bottom lip and tugging gently on her hair. "Just let me get the feeling back in my legs."

"Why wait?" Buffy asks innocently, and his hands come up automatically to grip her hips when she slinks forward to settle with her knees on either side of his face.

~*~

"God," she says after. "I kinda love that you don't breathe."

Spike is laying with his head on her chest, tracing nonsense shapes into her skin. She's carding her hand through his hair—he can tell it's a mess by the way she plays with it, fingers tugging on the curls.

"What d'we think, love?" he asks drowsily. "Good birthday?"

"Well," Buffy says slowly. "No kidnapping. No demons who weren't invited. And I'm pretty sure my boyfriend's not gonna be evil in the morning."

Spike's hand stutters over her hip bone. Carefully, he says, "Sounds like we made it."

"Yeah," she says quietly. "... Will you stay up with me? Just in case?"

Spike kisses her collarbone. He sits up gingerly, feeling the pull of his muscles, and rolls out the kink in his neck. She folds his shirt into his hands like it's something precious.

When he looks over, she's smiling.

They get dressed and creep downstairs, where the Scoobies and Dawn are still sound asleep. Buffy rescues the new coffeemaker from the present pile and they inaugurate it in the kitchen, arms around each other and Buffy's head on his shoulder as something new sputters to life for the first time.

Spike stirs four sugars into her mug; she goes to bring the chairs 'round to the front porch.

It's still a while to sunrise yet—the moon's just starting to disappear from view. Buffy's wearing his coat again, but Spike leans over to fish his cigarettes out of the pocket and light one up in the dark.

She catches his hand when he goes to tuck the lighter away, lacing their fingers together.

For a long time it's just that—Spike's cigarette smoke trailing up towards the slowly lightening sky and the smell of her coffee dwindling as she nurses it.

There's a faint sliver of yellow bleeding onto the horizon when Buffy says, "Did you know I died when I was sixteen?"

He'd heard rumors of a prophecy; the Anointed One's people liked to talk about that sort of thing, but he never had the patience for it.

He tilts his head so she knows he's listening.

"I was so scared," she tells him, her voice so bittersweet there's almost longing to it. "And  _ angry.  _ I found out I had to, you know, die to save the world, and I almost didn't go. Just let it burn."

Spike rubs his thumb over the side of her palm.

"And Mom bought me this beautiful white dress, like they could bury you in. It was like she knew." Buffy glances heavenward, laughing softly. "But she didn't, and I kept thinking, 'What're they gonna tell my mom? What're they gonna tell her?' But she never knew. Dawn still doesn't know."

Two slivers of golden light. A weight in Spike's chest.

Buffy looks at him, her eyes wet like she's pleading with him. "I didn't think I was gonna outlive my mom."

He swallows. "I'm sure she wanted you to."

"Sometimes I think I didn't really come back right," she says. She glances away, over the neighborhood. "Like, when you're dying your soul leaves, right? And maybe there's—there's a little piece or something that didn't come back with me, 'cause I don't think since then…"

"There's a soul in you, Summers," Spike promises, his voice cracking. "It's so bloody bright a man could burn himself on it."

Buffy smiles sadly. A gentle breeze tugs at her hair. She says, "Maybe you kept part of yours."

Spike's throat burns. He says, "Mum was alive when I turned," like he's not sure if he's proving her wrong or right.

She looks at him, something unknowable written on her face.

"She was dying, is the thing—the slow kind." Spike keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon. "And I could make it so—so she wouldn't hurt like that again. So she'd never feel weak again."

Buffy says, "Oh my God."

"Your lot always says that the human's gone, right? That some demon sets up shop and it gets your memories but not  _ you."  _ Spike wets his bottom lip. "Makes your job easier, that way. And maybe that's the way of it, but, Slayer—" He turns to her, aching. "I still felt like me. I wrote poetry. I loved Mum more than breath, more than blood."

Buffy shakes her head. "I don't…"

"But she didn't love me," Spike says flatly. He closes his eyes. "And the things she said… I turned her to dust. First thing I ever killed."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Buffy asks, her voice shaking.

"I'm reminding you," Spike says. "Of what I am. Why…"

There are windchimes, in the backyard. Spike can hear them from here, tinkling in the breeze. He can hear her breathing and the chair creaking under her weight when her lips brush against his cheek.

It burns.

Buffy says, "Coward."

He's sure she's right; he just can't say why.

She turns back to the sunrise. Her eyelashes are damp from blinking the tears away and her hair is tousled and wild, the wisps of it translucent in the growing light. Her mouth is still a little bruised.

There's a bite to the breeze this time of year. She shivers, pulling his jacket tighter around her with the hand that isn't still holding his, and he wishes he could give it to her again. Wishes there were some other story to tell.

The sun rises, and rises.

He almost drops her hand when the front door creaks, but it's only Tara.

"Wow, have you guys been out here all night?" she asks, coming to stand with them with the morning glow hitting her cheeks.

"Um," says Buffy.

Tara smiles knowingly. "Nevermind." She sits on the arm of Buffy's chair when she pats it in offering. "Pretty sunrise."

"It's all pink today," Buffy agrees. She tilts her head. "I wonder what makes it different colors some days."

"Oh, I bet Dawnie would know," Tara says with fond excitement. "We should ask when she wakes up."

Or Willow, probably. Spike wants to ask how that all went, but there's something making his throat feel tender, like he doesn't want to use it just yet.

"How are you doing?" Buffy asks, though. "I mean, I'm really glad you came, but was it okay for you?"

"I think so," Tara tells her. "I mean, we didn't talk much, but—she seems like she's doing okay, right?"

"Yeah, I think she is," Buffy agrees. "I—I mean, she's sad, but I don't think she's been doing any magics, anyway."

Tara nods, smiling a little. "I—I'm really glad you… um, thanks for wanting me here, I mean. I wasn't sure if…"

Spike glances over at her.

"Hey," Buffy says warmly, touching her arm. "You're one of the gang now. Scooby squad is for life. No awkwardness is too great."

Tara's smile widens, turning lopsided and grateful.

Spike clears his throat and offers, "You want coffee or something, pet?"

"Oh, I'm okay for now," Tara says. "But thanks."

Spike shrugs with one shoulder. He's not sure how much longer he'll be able to stay out here in the dwindling shade, but he'll linger while he can.

The silence is more companionable with the three of them—less pensive. After a while, the sounds of everyone else waking up can be heard from inside the house. Spike squeezes Buffy's hand once before he lets her go.

The others pour out onto the porch in a flurry of conversation. Xander, Willow, and Anya are all holding coffee mugs and Anya is wearing Xander's jacket from the night before.

Willow has a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. She says, "Oh, Spike—how can you be out here without getting all crispy?"

"Living on the edge, Red," Spike answers, gesturing upwards at the awning.

"How are you guys already up?" Dawn asks skeptically. "I don't even remember you going to bed."

Xander says, "Ah, the classic birthday all-nighter. Except usually we're sleeping 'til noon after facing unspeakable horrors, but you get me."

"First time for everything," Buffy says wryly, flicking her eyes to Spike with a smile.

"Can we watch cartoons and make pancakes with funny faces like when we were kids?" Dawn asks eagerly.

"You're still a kid," Buffy tells her. "But sure—after the sunrise."

Anya says, "I think it's mostly up there."

Buffy sticks out her bottom lip. "It's still sunrise until all the pink goes away."

"Sunrise it is!" Willow declares. "Scoot your booty."

Buffy moves over in her chair so that Willow can squeeze in next to her, then tugs at the blanket so it's draped over both their shoulders.

Xander rattles the back of Spike's chair and says, "Hey, living dead. Real chairs go to people whose joints make those popping noises that tell us we're gonna die young."

Spike rolls his eyes and moves to sit at Buffy's feet instead, taking up residence next to Dawn. "Technically the Slayer should give up her chair privileges too, then."

She flicks him on the back of the head.

"It's Buffy's birthday—she gets a pass," says Xander. He takes over the chair and pulls Anya into his lap. "Plus, unlike you, she can beat me up."

"Fair enough," says Spike.

"Wow," Dawn says. "You must be really tired if you're letting him have that one. Wimp."

Spike gives her a look. "Hey now, bite-sized. Who do you think's making those fancy pancakes of yours?"

Dawn blinks rapidly and gives him puppydog eyes.

He breaks instantly, leaning his head back against Buffy's knee with a long-suffering sigh.

Buffy grins at him and says, "Sucker."


	7. Chapter 7

"Hmm, I like this one," Buffy decides, doing up one more button on the dress shirt. "Red's all… you-y."

Spike rests his hands on her hips, reeling her in closer. "Are you sure I shouldn't match my date?"

"That's a good point!" Buffy says brightly, turning around to smile at the fitting room attendant. "Do you have anything in radioactive puke?"

The attendant, a young woman who can't be past college-aged, smiles sympathetically and guesses, "Bridesmaid dress from hell?"

"You've got no idea how literally," Buffy tells her.

"I'll get a couple green ones," she answers.

Buffy turns back to Spike and says, "Anyway, Clem's your real plus one. Are you sure you don't wanna match with him?"

Spike raises his eyebrows. "Is that a note of jealousy I detect?"

"Uh, not  _ even,"  _ says Buffy. "How sad do you think I am, being jealous of—"

Spike glances away.

"Oh my God," Buffy says delightedly. "You have a crush on Clem!"

"No I don't!' Spike says defensively.

"Aww, don't be embarrassed—Clem's a sweetie! I totally get it." Buffy takes both of his hands in hers, swinging them playfully between them. Then she stops short and pouts, "Oh. Now I'm jealous."

Spike rolls his eyes and glances pointedly at his soon-to-be formal wear. "Please, love. Not sure I can make it any more obvious whose thumb I'm under."

"Anya's?" Buffy guesses innocently.

"And besides, don't think my skin an' bones is what gets Clem's tentacles wriggling," Spike adds.

"Clem has tentacles?" Buffy asks, batting her eyelashes. "No wonder you like him."

Spike says, "I'm in love with you."

"Uh huh." Buffy pushes up on her toes to kiss him. "You're wearing the fucking suit. We're already pushing it on the no tie thing."

"I wasn't trying to get out of it, baby," Spike lies.

The attendant clears her throat from behind them. "Do any of these look close to the color?"

Buffy laughs when she gets a look. "No, see, 'cause these are all pretty. Umm, that one's probably closest. Spike?"

He shrugs.

"Maybe you should just get the red," Buffy says. "At least you like red."

"We'll look like a bloody Christmas advert, love."

Buffy sighs, glancing apologetically at the attendant before she tells him, lowering her voice, "Spike, it's not like anyone will even really—"

"I know," he says.

Buffy hesitates for a minute before she decides, "Okay, matching Flubber outfits it is."

"Did you want to try on the shirt?" the attendant asks.

Buffy says, "Nah, we're good, thanks."

"I'll hold it for you at the register."

Spike ducks back into the fitting room to change into his normal clothes. He hangs the suit jacket back up, staring for a moment—trying to picture it on his body, wondering what it was that made Buffy choose it.

He'll see how it turned out in the photos, at least.

Buffy's near the register, distracted by a jewelry display. She's turning a bracelet in her hands, watching little rows of square, fake diamonds glitter in the light.

"You like it, pet?" Spike asks, coming to stand beside her.

"Hm? Oh, no." She frowns, holding it out to him with it draped across her fingers. "I mean, not exactly. It's kinda something Mom would wear."

Spike hums.

Buffy smiles with melancholy. "She'd be so happy right about now. She'd be mom-ing it up."

Spike touches at her wrist, rotating it to get a better look at the bracelet. "We could get it."

"Nah," Buffy says. "It's not that kinda thing. But thanks."

He kisses her temple.

"She'd be thrilled about the wedding, then?" he asks, following as she slowly weaves a path to the register.

"Oh, I'm pretty sure she'd think it's a terrible idea," Buffy says with a laugh. "I can hear her being all, 'they have their whole lives ahead of them to get married, I just don't see what the rush is!'"

Spike raises an eyebrow. "And her daughter's opinion on the matter?"

Buffy's fingers trail along a rotating standee; rows of dangling earrings tap gently against their cardboard holders, shimmying with motion.

"Who knows how long life is?" she says, and drifts away from him.

~*~

The Harris-Jenkins wedding is at some kind of poncy hunting lodge slash country club, which Spike had no idea even existed within this bizarre fucking town's city limits. It was drizzling when Buffy, Dawn, and Willow left the house that morning and it's pouring by the time Spike and Clem show up at the venue that afternoon.

"How are we selling this to the humans again?" Clem asks nervously, shaking out his umbrella.

"Uh, I think they're going with 'circus performers,'" Spike says.

Clem says, "Oh, dear."

Spike claps him on the shoulder and says, "You'll be fine, mate. The way the Slayer tells it, most of 'em'll be drunk before the ceremony starts anyway."

"Hi, Spike!" Dawn says, waving them over. "Hi, Clem!"

"Hey, nibblet," Spike says. "You in charge of gifts?"

Dawn says, "Yeah. I thought it was gonna be lame, but some of them are moving so now I kinda feel under-qualified."

Spike shrugs. "You'll do great. Just don't put anything wriggly near anything squirmy and don't shake the boxes."

"... Oops," says Dawn.

"Secret's safe with me," Spike assures her. He cranes his neck. "Say, where's—"

"She's helping Xander get ready," Dawn interrupts, rolling his eyes. "God, you're such a dork. I can't believe I ever thought you were cool."

Spike puts a hand to his chest. "Your words hurt, little bit."

"I think you're cool, Spike."

"Thanks, Clem."

Dawn takes the present Spike has tucked under his arm and, after feeling the weight of it, uses it to hold down a box that's trying to wriggle off the table. 

Spike's got no interest in dealing with Xander's pre-wedding jitters, and he doesn't think they'd let him in to see Anya, so he sticks with Clem and socializes with some of the other demons. There's a few locals he recognizes, but a lot of them are from out of town. 

Mostly he avoids the humans. Not that he's so adverse to them in general these days, but the Harris clan, specifically, mostly consists of men who are asking for a good migraine-inducing punch to the face. 

After a little while, Buffy emerges from one of the back rooms—he saw her in the dress that morning, but, God. It's objectively a piece of work, yeah, but he doesn't even care. He'd love her in anything.

She's looking a little haggard, though. He tries to get her attention, but she beelines for the bar where Xander's father seems like he's trying to make some kind of speech.

Spike leans up against the wall, swirling his drink idly in his glass. He looks around for a clock unsuccessfully—shouldn't they be starting soon?

Eventually, Buffy gets close enough on her circuit of drunken lout wrangling for Spike to call out, "Alright there, love?"

Buffy rolls her eyes and plucks the glass out of his hand.

"That bad out there?" Spike asks.

Buffy gulps down the whiskey in one go, shaking her head in disgust. She looks up at him, eyes clearly stinging from it, and says, "If Mr. Harris tries to grab my ass again, I'm  _ actually _ breaking his arm."

"Bit disappointed you gave him a warning shot," says Spike.

Buffy's eyebrow raise says, _yeah, me too._ She hands the empty glass back. "I just need this ceremony to start."

Spike asks, "Anya ready yet?"

"I'm not sure," Buffy says. "Willow and Tara are still with her, I think."

Spike hums. He drops his gaze, giving her a once-over. "I tell you you look beautiful yet?"

"Oh my God, don't even." Buffy smacks him on the ribs. "This dress is  _ tragic." _

"At least you didn't get stuck with the caterpillar sleeves," Spike says. "I mean, did you draw straws on it?"

Buffy does a little jump up and down excitedly. "That's exactly what I  _ said  _ they looked like!"

"Oh, yeah," Spike agrees. He wriggles his fingers up the side of her arm. "Those things are just begging for an animation spell, they are. Little wriggly beasties—" He tickles the side of her neck.

Buffy bursts into laughter, half-heartedly batting his hand away. "Stop, you weirdo."

Spike drops his hand, smiling fondly at the color rising to her cheeks. "See, there you are—beautiful."

Her blush deepens. "Shut up."

"You're glowing," Spike tells her.

"'Cause the dress is radioactive."

Spike shakes his head minutely.

Buffy bites her lip and, after a glance around the room, steps a little closer to fidget with his suit jacket. "Looks pretty good on you, though."

"The dress?" Spike teases. "If you let me take it off you we can trade."

She snorts. "The  _ color.  _ And don't start—I've gotta go back to damage control out there."

"Or," Spike drawls, "you could let me work the tension out of those shoulders of yours."

"Oh my God, you're not serious," Buffy says, looking around the room. "Here?"

"Place like this's bound to have a dark room or two," he says.

Buffy's eyebrows lift in annoyance.

"C'mon, Slayer," Spike entices, dropping his voice low. "I'll even get on my knees."

"Xander and everyone need my help," Buffy hedges. 

"It's not life or death stuff, Slayer." Spike slouches lower against the wall, like he might do it right there. "Take a lunch break."

Buffy repeats, "A lunch break?"

Spike licks his lips.

"You're the worst," she says, in that tone that means  _ ask me one more time. _

"You're thinking about it though," Spike tells her. He smirks. "You like the idea of having me under that pretty skirt of yours when all of these nice people could catch you. Makes you hotter for it."

"Most of them aren't nice people," Buffy says. "Don't follow me right away."

She turns and strolls across the room and, with a motion that suggests she probably broke the lock, slips into a side room back towards the entrance.

Spike counts to fifteen, then saunters over to the bar, where he drops off his empty glass. He checks to make sure no one's watching before he joins her.

It's the ballroom where Spike assumes the reception'll be later—there's a dance floor with a partially set up DJ booth and a head table with a floral centerpiece that matches the bridesmaids' bouquets. All the smaller tables have little name cards and wedding favors on the place settings.

Spike shuts the door behind himself, though it no longer latches, and Buffy is pulling him down by the lapels.

He kisses her back hungrily, chasing her mouth when she walks herself towards one of the tables. She kicks a chair out of the way and ruins the corresponding place setting by shoving it towards the centerpiece so he can lift her onto the table and drop to his knees.

As promised. Spike dives under her skirt, pressing wet kisses up the side of her calf as the ruffles envelope him, turning his world dark and warm. She gasps when he nips at the underside of her knee and digs her heel into his back.

Her skin tastes a little of sweat. He presses his face between her thighs and mouths at her through her knickers, teeth tugging at the damp fabric, letting his breathing turn ragged.

"Fuck," she pants, her voice muffled by the dress. "Don't—fucking…  _ tease  _ me, we don't have time."

Spike chuckles. He suckles at the thin skin of her inner thigh anyway—loves the way she squirms, like she can't decide if it's pleasure or pain. It's both, her fancy high-heel shoes kicking against the suit she dressed him up in and her manicure chipping where she's gripping the table so hard it groans.

_ "Spike,"  _ she says.

He slides both hands up her thighs and hooks his fingers under her panties. She lifts her hips so he can tug the lace down and he thinks of a garter, of flowers and spectacle—their very own bastardized tradition.

Spike slips her panties all the way off and stuffs them in his trousers pocket.

"You  _ dick,"  _ Buffy tells him with a laugh.

Spike bites at the same spot on her thigh. "You'll get 'em back."

"What?" she asks.

He buries his tongue in her instead.

Buffy's thighs close around his head. The table warps under her grip and she slips forward a little, the moan that escapes her throat rumbling through her.

Spike's hands come up to grip her hips, pushing against where the satin is clinging tight to her frame. He can feel the seams straining and she'll kill him if they pop, but her thighs are trembling and tight as she rocks against his face and she's quivering tight around his tongue, too, and it's fucking worse than death that he can't touch every inch of her at once.

"Spike," she says, and he feels her voice more than hears it. "Oh, fuck, right th—do you hear something?"

He shakes his head, pressing the bridge of his nose against her clit as he curls his tongue. God, she feels amazing, feels right on the edge, if he can just—

There's the sound of something massive crashing through the drywall, and Buffy kicks hard on Spike's chest as he tries to scramble free of her—he falls backwards, landing wrong on a wrist that he narrowly avoids snapping, and comes face to face with the lifeless stare of a giant  _ fucking  _ demon corpse.

Through the settling haze of dust and—is that smoke coming off burnt flesh?—they're met with the gaze of half the fucking wedding.

Willow's fingertips are still sparking with lightning. She's taking in the scene with wide, black eyes, swaying a little on her feet.

Anya is staring blankly at the body; there are mascara tear-tracks on her face and she's bleeding from one arm. If she notices Spike and Buffy at all, she doesn't show it—and neither does Tara, who's watching Willow like she's a bomb.

Dawn takes off running.

Buffy says, "Fuck," and takes off after her.

Pretty much sums it up. 

Spike kicks a foot out, nudging the demon—ugly fucker's really dead, at least. He pushes onto his feet, wincing at the use of his injured hand, and braces himself against a chair.

"Well," he says. "What's all this, then?"

Tara glances at him, at least, but the most he gets in response is a blank stare. Behind the main group, it looks like some kind of confrontation is taking place between Xander's family and some of Anya's guests.

Bloody hell, Buffy's actually gonna kill him.

"See," Spike tries. "Uh, it's not what it looks—"

"You've got something on your face," Halfrek says. "And you  _ really  _ cheated at Never Have I Ever."

Spike swipes the back of his hand over his mouth irritably and snarks, "Well, yeah, okay—it's what it looks like. But I don't remember seeing fried fucking demon on the catering, so can someone tell me what the sodding  _ fuck  _ is going on?"

Willow's eyes are back to normal. She says, "Um, well—Xander's missing and everyone was arguing and then this giant demon attacked Anya and we couldn't fight it without Buffy, so—so—" she turns to Tara instead, pleading, "I had to do it, baby, you know that, right? Someone had to—"

Tara turns away, a hand to her mouth. "I—I just n-need a minute."

"Xander's missing?" Spike repeats. "Like, 'a demon ate him' missing, or—"

"He left," Anya says wetly. He looks at her—she's got her hand clasped over the clawmarks on her arm, the blood slowly trickling through her fingers anyway. "It was a trick. This—this man… he said—but if we could just  _ find  _ him I could explain. I could—"

Spike's heart pangs. "I'll find him."

Anya blinks at him.

"Don't you worry, pet," Spike promises gently. "We're gonna fix it."

He runs both hands through his hair, trying to smooth it back down, and picks his way through the rubble to get to the exit.

It's still raining outside—a little lighter than before, but it'll make tracking by scent harder. Spike slicks his hair back again and turns his head, trying to catch any sign of Xander, when he hears a voice to his left.

"Spike," Buffy says quietly.

He looks for her—she and Dawn are sitting on a bench, their dresses muddied and damp around their feet.

God, he wants to go to her.

"Uh," he says instead. "Xander's missing and An's a mess about it, so. I'm gonna—"

"Go," she tells him.

Spike heads back towards town, figuring that's the best bet. He wishes he'd borrowed Clem's umbrella at least—keep the water off his face—but it's not worth going back for now.

It turns out that he doesn't have to walk all that far anyway—Xander's up the road, slouching back towards the lodge with his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders up to his ears.

"Oi," Spike calls, and Xander's head snaps up. "You know you've got somewhere to be now about?"

"I know," Xander says tiredly. "I'm coming back."

Spike falls in step with him and scoffs, "Well, good. Glad you've come to your bloody senses."

"Let's not rub it in, okay?" Xander glances at him. "And what'd you do to get stuck with runaway groom duty, anyway?"

"Buffy," says Spike.

Xander asks, "Buffy sent you?"

"No," Spike says slowly. "I  _ did  _ Buffy. You know, a bit of the ole—" he makes a V with his fingers over his mouth and waggles his tongue.

Xander stares blankly at him.

"Ask the wedding party if you don't believe me," Spike tells him.

"Okay. It's understandable," Xander says, a bit like he's trying to teach himself calculus. "People do crazy stuff at weddings. It was a weird, one-time—"

Spike snorts.

Xander stops walking altogether. "... So, how long have I been deepthroating my own foot?"

"My guess is since you learned to talk," Spike says. "We've been together since Halloween."

"... Of  _ this  _ year, right?"

Spike considers lying, but Harris looks in rough enough shape as it is, and he's supposed to bring him back in one piece for Anya. "Yeah."

"Fuck me."

"Sorry, we're exclusive."

Xander scrubs a hand over his face and moves to start walking again, then freezes. "Did you say the  _ whole  _ wedding party?"

"Oh, yeah," Spike tells him. "Red threw the demon through the wall. It was a whole thing."

"Like, one of the wedding guests?" Xander asks.

"No," Spike says. "Like the demon that tricked you into leaving? That's why you're coming back, innit? The spell wore off or whatever."

Xander says, "I'm coming back to tell Anya we can't get married. There was a  _ demon?" _

Spike's nostrils flare. "You're  _ leaving _ her?"

"Shit, okay. That makes sense." Xander tugs on his own hair. "Shit. It doesn't matter."

"What in the bloody hell are you going on about?" Spike demands. "Why'd you leave the wedding?"

Xander exhales slowly. "I—he said he was me from the future. I mean, he had this glowy ball and he kinda looked like me, and he showed me how life was gonna turn out if I married Anya."

Spike stares at him incredulously. "And you, what—just  _ believed  _ him?"

"We live on a Hellmouth, Spike," Xander argues. "It's not like it was outta—"

"Yeah, you ninny, it  _ is  _ a Hellmouth," Spike snaps. "It could always be  _ anything,  _ and you just assumed the worst about Anya because you're—"

"It wasn't her," Xander says, and Spike stops short. Beside them on the greenery, a squirrel chitters in a hedge. "It was me."

Spike blinks the rain from his eyes.

"Look, I'm guessing you had other things on your mind at the ceremony," Xander says bitterly. "But did you happen to notice how majorly fucked up my family is?"

"Yeah," Spike says. "They're a lot of wankers. But—"

"I've got that in me," Xander tells him. He lifts his hands helplessly. "God knows how much, but it's in me, and I don't know how to get it out. And if I ever hurt Anya like that—if I ever  _ looked  _ at her like my dad looks at my mom, I'd fucking kill myself."

Spike says, "That's a load of rot."

Xander barks out a laugh and keeps walking. "Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to. Of course you don't get it. I mean, you can't even think of something besides—"

"No, I get it." Spike blocks his path. There's a tightness to his chest—something more wounded than anger. "You're all boo-hoo on yourself because Daddy drinks too much and gets mean and you think, what, you're a late bloomer? Better live a life of fucking solitude rather than risk it?"

"I don't know how to stop it, okay?" Xander puts a finger to his temple. "You've got a chip in your head that makes you play nice. Do you really think Buffy would let you touch her without it? Would you risk it, if you really loved her?"

Spike takes a step back; his heel totters on the curb. His fist in her hair, his teeth at her throat.  _ I always wanna eat you. _

A kiss to the corner of his mouth, the shampoo rinsing from her hair under his hands, a sob buried in his chest. Her thumbs wiping tears off his cheeks, clumsy fingers closing up the hole in his gut and the smell of bleach at sunrise.

Spike says, "Buffy knows who I am. And as long as I'm what she wants, she'll bloody well have me. I'd do anything it took."

"She deserves better," says Xander.

"I'm giving her better," Spike says. "You're giving up."

The rain has slowed to a drizzle; the clouds are starting to part, hazy afternoon sun filtering in through the cracks. Spike is damp enough that he can feel the itch of his skin trying to catch without success.

"Maybe," Xander says. "But at least I'm not betting her life."

Another cloud passes over the sun. Spike says, "Look, you're not your sodding father, Harris. Much as you and me've never gotten on, Buffy and the others love you. Anya loves you. Do you really think they'd give you the time of day if you had a lick of that piece of work in you? Do you think Buffy'd let you around Dawn?"

"Buffy's got a big heart," Xander says. "Maybe too big."

Spike says—

"Look, man, one of us can stand out here arguing all day," Xander says. "And one of us is starting to steam."

"... At least say it to her face," Spike says. "You owe her that much."

"I will," Xander tells him. "We should go."

They walk the rest of the way back to the lodge in silence. Buffy and Dawn are still outside on the bench; Xander barely glances over on his way inside, but Spike promised he'd be back. He comes to stand facing them, searching their faces.

Dawn stands up too, tilting her chin up to look him in the eye.

Spike braces himself for the worst. "Look, little bit—"

She hugs him.

Baffled, Spike makes eye contact with Buffy over her shoulder—she smiles knowingly.

"I just think it's stupid you guys didn't tell me," Dawn mutters. "Why would I care if you're having sex? You're already around all the time anyway, being all stupid and cute and stuff. It  _ so  _ wasn't subtle."

"That's us," Buffy says wryly. "Stupid people who have stupid sex."

Dawn squeezes Spike harder before pulling away and threatening, sing-song, "I  _ am  _ probably gonna be traumatized from seeing you two going at it in public—I think the only cure is retail therapy."

"Name your price," says Spike.

"We'll see," Dawn says sweetly, batting her eyelashes the same way Buffy does when she knows she's won a fight.

"We should probably get back inside," Buffy tells them. "They'll probably wanna start soon."

Spike hesitates.

"What?" Buffy asks.

Spike says, "I tried to talk him out of it, but I don't think—"

The doors open again; Xander walks out the same way he looked when Spike first found him in the rain—equal parts defeated and determined. He doesn't look up when Buffy calls his name in confusion.

"Oh," she says to Spike.

Dawn asks, "Wait, what's going on?"

Spike says, "I'm gonna check on Anya."

Buffy reaches over and squeezes his arm, telling him, "Wait a sec?"

He turns back to her and finds her in his arms. Throat tightening, he asks, "Alright, love?"

"Yeah," she says. Then laughs wetly. "Um, I mean, I'm really embarrassed, but…"

Spike kisses the top of her head, closing his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry, Buffy. I didn't mean for—"

"I know," she tells him. "We're okay. I just needed this."

He tells her, "I can stay."

"No," Buffy says. "Go be a good friend. I should check on Willow, too."

"Alright." Spike holds her tightly for one more moment, and then the three of them head inside.

The place is in relative disarray—most of the guests are seated, but there's still palpable tension between the two families as rumors start murmuring through the crowd. Willow is the only member of the wedding party still near the podium; Halfrek and Tara are standing with Anya on the opposite end of the aisle.

Spike goes to them; Anya looks up at his approach, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, and says without preamble, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. What am I supposed to tell all these people?"

"I—I think we should just tell them to go home," Tara says, rubbing her back soothingly. "Unless you still wanna do something with the reception. We can talk to the caterer, but they've probably made all the food already."

"I'll handle that, sweetie," Halfrek tells Anya. "I'll bet we can find a shelter to donate it to, hm? That would be nice."

Anya nods jerkily.

"I don't wanna go up there," she says. "It's too humiliating. I can't tell them that Xander—that he… I wrote these vows and he'll never hear them, and do you think he even wrote his? I can't stand up these and have all his horrible family knowing they were right and he didn't really—"

"None of that," Spike cuts in firmly. "I'll get up there and tell the lot of them to piss off, how's that? You just go with Tara and get changed, alright, love?"

Anya takes a breath—she looks to Tara, who nods and leads her back to the changing room with a gentle hand between her shoulder blades. Once they're out of earshot, Spike looks at Halfrek.

"Look at us," he jokes weakly. "Couple of demons to the rescue, eh?"

Hallie smiles thinly. "You probably shouldn't actually tell them to piss off."

"Yeah, yeah," says Spike. "I'll think of something better. You ready?"

"Yes, of course." 

Halfrek walks away, heading towards a nervous staff member who seems to be assessing the damage from the ruined wall. Spike takes a moment to pity that poor sap, then makes his way down the aisle towards the podium.

Buffy is having a hushed conversation with Willow, who's looking a little green around the gills. She raises an eyebrow at him when he taps on the microphone with two fingers.

"Uh, right then," Spike says into the mic, and suddenly the whole place's eyes are on him. "So, thanks to the, uh, giant bloody hole in the wall and other unforeseen circumstances, such as—weather. The wedding's cancelled."

A beat of stunned silence.

"... Piss off," Spike adds.

~*~

"Cheers, loves," Spike says, touching his shot glass to Anya and Tara's before tossing back his drink.

Anya's eyes squeeze shut when she bites into her lime. She tosses it onto the pile on the hotel coffee table and says, "There needs to be a better toast for when you're depressed. Like, 'boo!' and then you drink."

"We're not depressed," Tara says. "We're… coping."

"That's the spirit," Spike tells her.

"You're  _ definitely  _ not depressed," Tara says skeptically. "You're our token happy friend."

And second stowaway on Anya's "we already paid for the honeymoon so someone might as well use it" adventure. Spike reaches for the tequila bottle.

"Spike can be an honorary depressed person," Anya says. She pats him forcefully on the head. "Find something to be depressed about. Pretend Buffy broke up with you."

"I'm  _ so  _ glad everyone knows about that now," says Tara. "I mean, sorry about the public humiliation, but it was a really annoying secret to have to keep. You were pretty bad at it."

Spike shrugs. "Happy to be of service."

"I miss Xander," Anya announces.

Spike pours them another round.

"We know, sweetie," Tara tells her.

"But it's  _ stupid,"  _ Anya says. "It's stupid to miss him! I'm so angry at him and I wish he was here and—and I think love should just go away if the other person hurts your feelings. It's unfair that it keeps going."

She holds her hand out dutifully when Spike wiggles the salt shaker.

"It's really unfair," Tara agrees. Then, "Oh, I'm gonna switch to wine."

Spike does her shot for her and says, "Boo to that."

"What?" Anya asks.

Spike gestures with the other shot glass. "'Boo?' Instead of 'cheers?'"

"Oh!" Anya licks the salt off her hand and drinks her tequila. "No, that's not as good."

"I think the key is to say 'cheers' ironically," Tara says helpfully, wrestling with the cork in the bottle of Merlot. 

Spike holds out his hand; she passes over the bottle and he works the cork out in a few twists.

"Your thing-a-majig opening skills are wasted on Buffy," Anya says glumly. "She can open her own raspberry jelly."

"Yeah," Spike says drily. "That's what makes us such a bloody tragic match."

Anya asks Tara, "Who opened the jelly between you and Willow?"

Spike elbows her scoldingly.

"What?" Anya asks. "It's Tara's turn to say depressing things."

"Willow just opened stuff with magic," says Tara.

"See?" Anya says. "Like that!"

Spike tells Tara, "She called again while you were at the pool earlier."

"Ugh." Tara leans her head back against the couch. "I don't know what to do."

"Should I tell you what she said?" he asks.

Tara glances at him. "Depends on what she said."

"... Right, so that doesn't actually—"

Tara groans. "Tell me."

"Uh, she said she's been doing pretty well," Spike tells her. "Hasn't used magic since the wedding. And she wanted to say, she knows it might not make a difference, but she really only did it 'cause Anya was in danger."

"I was in a lot of danger," Anya agrees. "Personally, I'm glad to have not been murdered by a vengeful demon on my wedding day. Even if I am depressed and the wedding got ruined anyway. Oh, but you don't have to get back together with Willow just for that."

"I know, sweetie," Tara says kindly. "I'm glad she saved you, too. It's just… still hard to react to."

Spike tells her, "There's no rush."

Tara swirls her wine in her glass. "I know. Maybe I'll call her when we get back, though. We can… just get coffee, right?"

"That doesn't sound like a drunk Tara decision," Spike says.

"Drunk Tara can ask sober Tara in the morning," she answers.

Anya pats Spike on the head again. "Did you hear from Buffy, too?"

"Uh, yeah," Spike says, and decides to omit the phone sex. "She said everything's fine at the Magic Box," and that she hates every minute of helping run it, which he also omits. "And, uh, no one's heard from Xander yet. Sorry, pet."

Anya makes a  _ pfbt  _ noise of distress and slowly melts into the back of the couch, slumping over until her cheek is smushed against his bicep.

"Spike?" she asks after a moment. He hums, looking down at her with amusement. "If you could get your chip taken out, would you do it?"

Spike feels Tara go still next to him. He raises his eyes to the row of empty shot glasses, the half-empty bottle of tequila.

"... I don't know," he says. "Hasn't occurred to me to try. Not since—"

Since he fed on that girl with Dru.

He clears his throat. "Why ask, pet?"

"D'Hoffryn offered me my old job back," Anya mutters. "After the wedding. He said I could be a vengeance demon again."

Spike and Tara share a look.

"... Did you do it?" Tara asks.

"Not yet." Anya wraps both her arms around Spike's and hugs him closer. "I don't know if I should."

Tara ventures, "Um, well—do you think it would make you happier? Were you… were you happier before?"

"I don't  _ know,"  _ Anya complains. She sniffles. "I mean, I was never sad like this when I was a vengeance demon. And I was a really good one. I don't think I'm a very good human."

"No, sweetie, what makes you say that?" Tara asks.

Anya's voice cracks. "Because it hurts so much."

She hides her face in the crook of Spike's arm and starts to cry. Tara frowns worriedly and gets up to sit on her other side, rubbing circles into her back and shushing her soothingly.

"Shh, no, no, see," Tara tells her. "That's just a part of it, right? It's all connected. We get to feel so happy because we know what it's like to be sad. And we're sad because we know what it's like to be happy. Life was made to have both."

"That's  _ stupid,"  _ Anya says. "It's human and stupid."

Spike says, "I'm not sure it'd help much either way, pet. I'm still plenty soulless over here and, trust me, there's been my fair share of pain."

"But you've got Buffy now," Anya muffles into his shirt.

_ For now,  _ he thinks.

"Well, yeah," Spike says. "But she's not the first person I loved. I mean, Dru, Cecily—got my heart broken more than once. And, yeah, it hurts like a bitch every time. Feels like the world's ending."

"I'm not sure you're selling this," says Tara.

"But Buffy's the best thing that ever happened to me," Spike continues. "Not just 'cause of her. I've got a kid sis now." He smiles at Tara. "And friends who don't try to kill me. I think it's a damn good trade, for what it's worth."

Tara smiles back at him, like,  _ okay, you did good by the end. _

Anya sniffles and shifts so her face is only partially hidden. She collects herself a moment and says, "I wish there was a way to skip all the shitty parts. Or at least get some kind of guarantee. 'Happiness by the end or your money back.'"

"God, yeah," Tara agrees. "That'd be nice."

"Best we can do is do each other, I expect," Spike says.

They both raise their heads to look at him.

"With  _ friendship,"  _ Spike says exasperatedly. "Make each other happy with friendship, god, you lot need to get your heads out of the bloody gutter."

Anya shrugs and says, "I'd do you both in the sex way. We're all very attractive."

Tara says, "I'd watch for Anya."

"Thanks ever so, but my girlfriend's a little too good with a stake." Spike pauses. "Huh. That works on both levels now."

"Good for Buffy," says Tara.

~*~

"You were in love with  _ Hallie?" _

"Bollocks."

~*~

Spike gets back to Revello Drive a little after ten on Sunday night. He lets himself into the house and finds Buffy hunched over the dining room table, paperwork spread out all around her.

"'ello, love," Spike greets. "Never guess who we found at Tara and Anya's place."

"Xander with a buncha flowers?" Buffy asks without looking up.

"... Well, yeah," says Spike.

Buffy glances at him, scrunching up her mouth. "Sorry. Fun trip?"

"Kept the girls above water," Spike tells her, coming around to kiss the top of her head. "Only got propositioned for a threesome once."

"Damn," she says. "Okay, I'll pay up next week."

Spike squeezes one of her shoulders, then, finding tension there, starts massaging both of them gently. "Alright, love?"

"Ugh," she says, which means no. "I had to ditch a bunch of shifts this month between helping with the wedding and, you know, helping with the 'wedding,' and now the little numbers are being mean to me."

"I'm sorry, baby." Spike digs his thumb into the cord of muscle in the side of her neck; she moans and leans her head back against his torso. "Want me to give 'em a talking-to?"

Buffy goes oddly quiet. She stills his hand and says, "I'm gonna show you something, but you can't get mad."

"Uh," Spike says. "Okay?"

Buffy gets up and goes to the cabinet where she keeps all the official household documents—bills, birth certificates, et cetera. She pulls out a manila envelope, which she brings back over and shakes out onto the table. 

Almost a dozen normal postage envelopes flutter free; a few of them are opened, but the rest are still sealed. Glancing at her, Spike plucks one of the opened ones up and flips it around.

It's postmarked internationally. The only thing inside is a check, pay to the order of Buffy Summers and signed by Rupert Giles. It's dated for the week after he left for London.

The amount is over double what Buffy and Spike make in a paycheck combined.

Spike stares blankly at it. "That's what these all are?"

"He sends them every two weeks," Buffy says. "It's his Watcher's salary. He told me he wanted to have it."

"They're not cashed," says Spike.

"No," she answers.

Did he promise not to get angry? There's something in his throat, but he thinks he can call it something else.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because," Buffy says wetly, and it hangs in the air so long he starts to think it's all he's getting. "It—it makes me feel… dirty."

Spike looks at her with alarm.

"Not like that," she says. Then presses her knuckles to her mouth. "Or… maybe a little. It's like—like all I was was a body to him. It was just a job he's not doing anymore."

It's anger. Just not at her.

"I don't think he meant it that way, love," Spike says, his voice so forcibly gentle it hurts his teeth.

"I don't care!" Buffy says desperately. She uncurls her fist, hand shaking. "I don't want his fucking money. I don't want my dad's fucking money. I want someone to  _ stay." _

She turns away from him, a hand running angrily through her own hair.

"I needed him," she tells her reflection in the glass, which Spike isn't in. "I'm twenty-one fucking years old and he left me to take care of Dawn all by myself, like I have any idea what I'm doing. Like it's  _ remotely  _ fair for me to have to know what I'm doing. If I didn't have you, I—I don't know how I'd manage."

Is that why she's still with him? Because he's all she's got in a fuck-all list of non-options?

"But this money could put Dawn through college," Buffy says. "When—if something happens to me, it could take care of her. And I'm so fucking selfish, I can't even do that."

"You're not selfish, Buff," Spike tells her. "You're just a woman."

"I'm the Slayer," Buffy says, turning to look at him. "Anything besides that is selfish."

Spike says, "Rot."

Buffy shakes her head, scrubbing at her face.

"Cash the checks, Buffy."

"I can't," she says. "I—I can't just take them all in at once and—and—if he doesn't even know."

"So we'll call him," Spike tells her. "Fair warning and all that."

Buffy takes a steadying breath. "I… I haven't talked to him since he left. I don't want the first time to be like this."

Spike says, "So I'll do it. I'll call him tonight—you don't even need to be awake."

She stares at the pile of envelopes on the table.

"It's the least you deserve, love," Spike says. "It's not dirty money, you're a goddamn hero. It shouldn't have to hurt this much."

Buffy buries her face against his chest and cries.

Spike cups the back of her head and wraps his other arm around her and closes his eyes as tightly as he holds her. The anger burns up in his throat and it's grief, underneath. A heavy line of it down to the hollow of his chest, right below where her cheek lays. 

There's so little to do about it.

"Um," asks Dawn timidly, shuffling into the room. "Are you guys okay? I thought I heard…"

Buffy stifles her next breath and redoes it slower, her shoulders shaking less. She looks up, quickly wiping at her eyes, and keeps an arm wrapped around Spike's waist.

"Um, yeah, we're—everything's okay," she says, smiling encouragingly. "We were just… talking about boring adult stuff."

"Like bills from the cable company?" Dawn asks.

Buffy laughs softly and nods.

"... Can I help?" Dawn asks.

"Never grow up?" Buffy offers hopefully.

Dawn says, "Maybe there's a spell for that."

Buffy rolls her eyes, sniffling one more time. "Come here."

Dawn walks around the table and Buffy pulls her into a hug, sandwiching her between them. After a moment, Spike wraps his arms around them both, his cheek resting on the top of Dawn's head, and stays until the ache passes.

~*~

That night—Buffy and Dawn asleep, like he promised—Spike flips through the address book and finds Giles' new number.

It almost rings to voicemail, and then Giles answers, "Yes, hello? Rupert Giles speaking."

"It's Spike," he says.

The silence is tense. 

"Has something happened?" Giles asks.

"You'll never guess what Buffy just showed me," Spike tells him instead.

Giles sighs. "Spike, it is rather early here—"

"Oh, it's almost nine in the morning, you wanker," Spike cuts in. "If that's early for you these days, you're enjoying retirement too much."

"What did Buffy show you," Giles asks tiredly. "And why isn't she telling me about it herself?"

Spike leans his shoulders back against the wall. "You Watchers are vastly overpaid. Say, what's it take to be one these days? Think I can get myself a job?"

"If it's any consolation," Giles says, "I consider that the amount with interest. Buffy doesn't need to know that particular detail."

Spike glances at the ceiling, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip sardonically. "She's too proud to cash in, but I'm not. Just thought I'd let you know."

"Yes, I expect that's why she told you," says Giles. He clears his throat; Spike can picture him cleaning his glasses. "The money hasn't been touched. I was hoping she'd change her mind."

"Jolly good, then," Spike tells him, going gratingly posh. "Ta, old—"

"Spike," Giles interrupts. "A moment?"

Spike falls silent in reluctant assent.

"You and Buffy have been… seeing each other, correct?"

Well, Buffy's not gonna like that. Spike wonders if he should tell her.

"So, news made it across the pond, then, did it?" he asks. "Who spilled the beans?"

"Ah, no one—the others know?" Giles asks.

Spike snarks, "Yeah, it was this whole bloody ordeal at the wedding you missed. You did hear there was a wedding?"

Giles ignores him. "I put it together after that dreadful spell at the shop—though I had my suspicions before then. I do know my Slayer."

"What's your point, then?"

"Is she happy?"

Spike's chest constricts. "What, no shovel talk from the old man?"

"Buffy is an adult now," Giles says evenly, "and has never needed me for much of anything."

Spike's gaze casts over the kitchen—the dishes piled in the sink, the coffeemaker whose little clock tells him it's 12:47 AM. He says, "Then you don't know her at all."

Giles is quiet on the other end of the line.

"She didn't need a Watcher," Spike tells him. "She needed a bloody father, especially after Joyce. And you even fucking loved her like one, so I don't know where you get off—"

"Of course I loved Buffy," Giles cuts in. "I still very much do. But something I suspect you'll never understand, Spike, is that it isn't always enough."

Spike snaps, "Why would I want to? Is that what good your sodding soul is for? So you can leave a person and twist it up like it's some kind of kindness?"

"Yes, in fact," says Giles. "And sometimes it will even be true."

Spike closes his eyes.

"You never answered my question."

"If she is," Spike says, "it's no thanks to you."

"No," Giles agrees softly. "No, I don't imagine that it would be."

Faintly through the phone, Spike hears a woman say, "Rupert? We're going to be late," and Giles, his voice now also muffled, answers, "Coming, dear."

Spike says, "Don't let me keep you, Rupert. So sorry to wake you."

Giles says, "Goodbye, Spike," and hangs up the phone.

Spike opens his eyes. He puts the phone back on the receiver and pushes away from the wall, then makes his way up the stairs.

The lights are all off, like he left them, and Buffy's door is open a crack. He's already dressed down for bed; he crawls in gingerly, careful not to wake her, resettling the covers over them both.

Buffy hums and rolls into his arms.

Spike presses his lips to her temple and murmurs, "Sorry."

She shakes her head sleepily. Her fingertips brush against his hip, over the sliver of skin exposed where his shirt's rucked up. "Thanks."

"What for, love?" Spike asks.

Buffy's breath evens back out into sleep.

~*~

"Why'd you stop writing poetry?" Buffy asks, digging the point of her chin into his shoulder.

She's spooning him in bed, still drowsy after joining him for an afternoon nap. Her arm is wrapped loosely around his waist, fingertips tickling his stomach.

Spike says, "You let that one go for a while."

"Mm, I figured I wasn't gonna get an answer." Buffy kisses his neck. "But now I've got girlfriend powers."

"Girlfriend powers, eh?" Spike drawls, shivering when she nips at him. "And what're those?"

Buffy nuzzles against his ear and pouts, "Please?"

Spike takes in a breath, staring out at her gauzy curtains, drawn tight with the blinds closed. 

"'Cause it makes you vulnerable," he tells the filtered sunlight. "You write something, it's like you put a piece of yourself down for someone to find, asking 'em to hold it."

"And that's a big no when you're a vampire," Buffy says.

Spike shakes his head. "Especially not in Angelus and Darla's company. Dru, she said she liked it, but…"

Buffy is quiet for a moment.

"Well, they're not here now," she says, kissing him again. "I am. And I can hold little tiny pieces of you." Her arm tightens around his waist, snuggling him closer. "I'm holding big pieces."

Spike smiles faintly, his eyes fluttering shut, but there's a tightness in his chest. "I dunno, love."

"Just think about it," Buffy tells him. "It just… seemed like it was important to you."

"Yeah," Spike says. "When I was a man."

Buffy's hand slides up his stomach, coming to lay flat over his breastbone. "Hm. I thought you wanted me to treat you like one."

Spike turns and catches her in a kiss.

~*~

April fades into May. Spike watches the days grow longer from the Summers' back porch, burning firewood after dark. Clem moves into the crypt and Spike's books move into Revello Drive. There's a section of the dresser dedicated to his growing collection of jumpers.

They repaint Dawn's room with the windows open, curtains fluttering in the breeze to the sound of cicadas screaming outside, the periwinkle streaked on their hands. They rearrange furniture.

Spike leaves flowers on Joyce's grave.

One evening on the cusp of June, Buffy comes home from a shift at the Doublemeat and shouts, "Honey, I'm home!"

Spike is sitting on the edge of their bed. He means to answer, but it's taking his concentration to hold the little book steady in his hands.

"Spike?" Buffy calls. "The gang wants to do a movie tonight—I said yes, is that okay?"

Her feet pound up the stairs and she appears in the doorway.

"Whatcha doin'?" she asks, then glances over her shoulder. "Where's Dawn?"

Spike looks up at her. "At the Y—Janice picked her up."

Buffy rolls her eyes and strips out of her shirt. "If we don't get her a car, she might  _ actually  _ kill us." She unhooks her bra next. "And don't say she can have yours, 'cause it's a fucking deathtrap."

"Wasn't gonna, baby," Spike lies.

Buffy looks over at him again, then comes and drapes her wrists over his shoulders. "You're dressed all soft today. What's up?"

"I, uh." Spike clears his throat. "I wrote you something."

Her face lights up. "Like a poem something?"

Spike nods.

Buffy throws herself onto the bed delightedly and demands, "Read it to me!"

Spike so rarely feels afraid. 

He says, "Maybe—"

Buffy hooks her legs around him and takes him down to the mattress in a move that's far more reminiscent of a slaying tactic than anything romantic.

She ends up braced over him, though, reaching up to touch lightly at his cheek. Her hair is cut short for the summer, falling in her face and refusing to stay behind her ears even when she tucks it there.

He misses it long, but she came home beaming from the salon.

Spike's voice cracks when he asks, "What if it's no good?"

Buffy's expression softens; she rearranges them against the pillows and lays his head against her bare chest.

"My old professor said poetry's only bad when it's dishonest," she tells him, her fingers stroking over the shell of his ear. "And it's from you. So it's gonna be good."

Slowly, Spike nods, wetting his bottom lip. He flips the book open, flipping past the others—ones he tried first, that didn't feel quite right. He clears his throat and warns, "Uh, it doesn't rhyme. I tried to make it more traditional-like, but—it wasn't us."

Buffy says, "I like ones that don't rhyme," and kisses the top of his head.

Spike nuzzles against the hollow of her throat. "Um. So it's—there's no title. But… 'Loving you is… is an ocean, thinking—'" his voice cracks. "'Thinking I'll—'"

He closes his eyes. The ache between his ribs like a coil of shame, of wanting something so much that it becomes not-itself. 

Gently, Buffy plucks the book from his hands and reads it to herself. He can hear whispers of breath as she mouths some of the words, can feel the stutter of her heart in her chest below his ear.

_ Loving you is an ocean, _

_ thinking I'll drown. Walking in _

_ to drown. And instead _

_ the waves cover me in salt _

_ and tumble me to shore, and the tide _

_ kisses my ribs. _

_ Loving you is blood, _

_ always flowing. Always warm. _

_ And staining my hands, _

_ so I ruin what I touch _

_ with you. _

_ Loving you is the sunrise _

_ and all the colors it paints the sky _

_ (but especially pink). _

_ And the way it transmutes me _

_ into something more useful to the trees _

_ and those little birds you like. _

_ I will love you to salt, and ruin, and ash. _

Tears roll down Buffy's cheeks and land like fat raindrops on the pages. She sniffles, once, and says, "Oh, I'm sorry—" and scrambles to blot up the stains with the sleeve of Spike's jumper. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

Spike takes the book back and sets it aside, sitting up, his useless heart in his throat. "No, it's—I knew it wouldn't—"

"That's not why I'm crying," Buffy tells him, a smile shaking onto her face, her eyes still shining.

Spike says, "I don't understand."

And Buffy says—

She  _ says— _

"No," Spike croaks. "You don't."

Another tear rolls down Buffy's cheek. She says, "Please don't say that."

Spike's jaw is clenched too tight for him to protest again.

Buffy tells him, "You use her little spoons."

Spike swallows and asks, "What?"

"You use Mom's baby little tea spoons when you make anyone coffee or—or anything," Buffy says, rubbing at her nose. She purses her lips together, taking a breath. "And you try not to let me see, and that's when I knew you could really love me. That's… when I knew I could love you back."

Spike shakes his head. Trying to—

"When I told you I couldn't, Spike," Buffy continues, her voice wobbling. "It—it wasn't really because it was you. I was scared it was me."

Spike says, "Buffy—"

"Cause I'd been feeling like—like maybe there's something wrong with me." Buffy scrubs both hands over her face and pushes her fingers through her hair. "And I went out to the desert and the First Slayer told me that—that I could love through death. That all I was made for was killing and dying and—and—"

"It's a lie, Buffy," Spike cuts in fiercely, pulling her hands away. Cupping her cheek. "It's nothing but rot and rubbish."

"On the tower," Buffy tells him, her voice colored with a kind of almost-laughter. "I wasn't scared. Don't you think that's sad?"

Spike caresses the grief into her cheek.

"But I—I get it now," she promises. Her lips touch the edge of his palm, smiling wistfully. "'Cause I… I think I've been in love with you for a while, actually, and so maybe it's—you couldn't feel it?"

Spike wets his bottom lip wondrously. The whole of him aching, like his skin's peeling back from the inside, the hope gnawing away at his guts and leaving him this hollow thing for the love to crawl into. Like he swallowed holy water.

"I felt it, Buffy," he says, swallowing thickly. "God, it was in everything, but I was bleeding terrified. I'm still bleeding terrified."

"Don't be," Buffy soothes. She cups the back of his head and touches their foreheads together. "I'm gonna show you again, okay? Let me show you again."

Spike's hand in the back of her hair, tightening just a little. Biting tenderly at her bottom lip, his teeth blunt and human and still wanting the other thing but not like he wants this. Not like he loves her.

"I'm in love with you, Spike," Buffy whispers. "I love you."

He lets her.

**Author's Note:**

> I love this show and everyone in it with my entire dumpster fire heart. For more shenanigans, follow me [on Tumblr!](https://yoursummerfrost.tumblr.com/)


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